


Perfect Knowledge

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Paris accepts the wrong gift, Chakotay must rescue him from a premature burial.  All he has to do is claim him....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Knowledge

The old lady died while Chakotay was inspecting the power plant on the other side of the valley; and this is what made the difference.

He realized later that she’d pretty much planned it this way: realized that she was dying, sent him out for some vacuous admiration of his hosts’ technological toy, made sure he wasn’t at the palace when they closed the gates and set the guards.

When Chakotay got back and found out what had happened, he thought, _Damn_ , because she’d been a great old gal, earthy and smart and funny, with a lively gleam in her eyes; two generations ago, Wa’uuta had bludgeoned sense into feuding clans, and she still ruled with a velvet hand in an iron glove.

Then he thought, _Shit_ , because it meant a state funeral, and he and Tom Paris didn’t have their dress uniforms, and _Voyager_ was a few lightyears away, dickering over dilithium.

Then he was stopped at the gate by guards, wielding spears with steely-eyed proficiency; and he thought, _Huh?_

Then the head priest talked to him, and Chakotay thought, _But TOM’S in there_.

“Lieutenant Paris is in there,” Chakotay said reasonably.

The priest inclined his head. He knew this.

Chakotay tried again. “He isn’t— We’re not—”

The priest gazed placidly at him, pale eyes blank in the greyish face, four-fingered hands folded in that way that seemed to come with being one of the religious.

“Is there some sort of purification ritual he has to undergo?” Chakotay asked.

“The oata’u has been brewed, and he has received it,” said the priest. “He will be washed and prepared.”

And Chakotay started to get that chill in his belly ….. “Prepared for what?” he asked very calmly.

“To be the daumna’s concubine.”

And for a moment Chakotay couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; the chill had filled him, and everything was frozen, including his brain. “Her— She’s dead.”

The priest inclined his head.

Chakotay stared at him. This meant that— Shit, that old— She’d laughed at Paris’s jokes and applauded his stories, and— “But—”

“He accepted the veil,” the priest said as if this explained everything. And then he left, tugged away by someone to take care of some insignificant aspect of the ritual.

The veil. Paris had accepted the— Chakotay closed his eyes. Veil. Veil. Oh, shit, that fucking scarlet cloth, silky, gaudy, tawdry.

“Uh—thank you,” Paris had said politely when Wa’uuta gave it to him. “I’m—I’m honored.”

And he’d looked over to Chakotay, who had been given nothing. As they left for their quarters, Chakotay had seen an impertinent twinkle in the eyes of Wa’uuta’s women, and great satisfaction in Wa’uuta’s face. And one of the handsome young guards in the hallway smiled when he saw Paris carrying the gaudy cloth.

Now Chakotay knew why.

Shit. He had to—he had to fucking _do_ something. With _Voyager_ out of range for the next five or six days, it was up to him to fucking do something without getting them both killed. Chakotay felt panic trickle in, felt cold sweat. No weapons, because Daumna Wa’uuta would have been insulted; and this was supposed to be a friendly visit. A little break from duty.

Chakotay snorted. Some break. No good having the fucking phasers, anyway, because he and Paris would have to escape capture for five or six days, hide out in a landscape they didn’t know and the Chaauree did know. And that was if Chakotay could get into the palace to break Paris out.

And if Paris was still alive.

Best not to think that way. But—

He found one of the priestesses, one of the few who wasn’t praying or singing or working in the square before the palace gate.

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” he said to her; and the priestess smiled at him as if he were a bright six-year-old with a cute question and drew him underneath the uala trees that shaded the wall near the gate.

“What do you wish me to explain?” she asked.

“It’s— Burials aren’t quite the same where Paris and I come from. I don’t understand what’s going on.” He found himself covertly eyeing the trees; was that big one overhanging the wall far enough from the gate that he wouldn’t be spotted if he climbed it at night?

“The palace has been made sacred by the daumna’s death.” The priestess’s voice took on the comfortable and relaxed tone of the born lecturer. “The gates have been closed so that the rites may be attended to. All who will not journey with her have left; only those who will take the journey remain, tended by the religious who now serve the daumna. The daumna’s spirit has gone on the journey to her home in the life beyond this, learning the path so she can guide those who will attend her as she enters the life beyond. But she also watches over the palace as her attendants are prepared to join her. The palace is hers, until the burial rites are over and she has gone to her home beyond this life. Inside her palace, all is calm and joyful, and the prayers are being sung. It is peaceful where the daumna is in this life, as it will be peaceful where she is in the life beyond. Those who will join her in that life have drunk the oata’u; now they wait and dream and ready themselves. Tonight, and tomorrow, and the next night, they will be bathed and blessed and readied. It is a great honor. Your friend will know much joy and peace in the daumna’s house in the life beyond. As she cared for her people in this life, so she will care for them in the other life. Your friend is to be envied.”

That was debatable. “What is ‘oata’u’?”

“It is the drink that prepares. It calms and strengthens the will.”

“It’s not poison.”

“No!” She looked shocked. “To murder would be an unholy act! And at such a holy time! The oata’u merely strengthens the will to die, which is in all those who have chosen to accept the daumna’s veil. She has invited them to join her in the life beyond, and they do not wish to live without her. The oata’u helps them to join her.”

And, if you didn’t want to die? Chakotay tried to calm his hammering heart. “So, she’ll be buried the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes.” The priestess smiled and took one of his hands between hers. “I know you weren’t her choice. But be happy for your friend. And in the life beyond, perhaps—” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled. “—perhaps the daumna will change her mind about you.”

Gosh—what an honor. He forced a smile as she left him.

Chakotay reached out to finger the ribbed bark of the uala tree shading him. Not the texture he was used to—too even—but still a tree. A living thing; he could almost feel the life force beneath the pale bark. The coppery leaves rustled in the breeze. He caressed the trunk, closed his eyes, inhaled the spicy sweetness exuded from leaf and bark and broken twig. Alive. So alive.

The square was full of life. He watched with his hand on the tree. The dusty square had been emptied of the small booths that sold the various sundries of Chaauree life. But the tavern was doing brisk business: villagers had gathered in front of it in solemn groups. Many were drinking wuaash, the golden beer on which the village based its fame; but the mood was somber. Occasionally a gentle keening rose above the murmuring in the square. Banners were being unrolled from windows overlooking the square: some faded, others newer. Nearer the palace, priests and priestesses sang prayers and played the little golden drums that punctuated each line of their song. Right next to the palace wall, two priests and two priestesses bent and stood, bent and stood, to an unheard cadence as they lay out a complex pattern in small stones. Nearby, a largeish canopy was being set up.

Nothing he saw made any fucking sense to him at all.

He’d put off thinking about his problem long enough. Chakotay laid his cheek against a low branch of the uala tree and regarded the wall around the palace. He had to get Paris the hell out of there. For a number of reasons, chief among them that allowing a subordinate to be buried so he could whore in someone’s afterlife just wasn’t going to impress Janeway with Chakotay’s renewed commitment to Starfleet.

He allowed himself a flicker of a smile and sighed. Paris. Tom Paris. Shit, the man annoyed him. And beyond that: How the hell could one man get himself into so much trouble? When Paris was around, shuttles tumbled from the sky and old husbands died and terrorists entangled _Voyager_ in their struggle.

And old Indians who should really know better lost every shred of temper and dignity and just wanted to haul off and punch him. Not without reason: Paris was just too damned believable at the kind of insubordination that had flummoxed Chakotay and helped flush a traitor. Sometimes Chakotay just wanted to just deck him. ___Yes, and he saved YOUR worthless ass on the Ocampan homeworld. Even if he weren’t a subordinate, you owe him_. Yes: beyond the fact that Paris was under Chakotay’s command, beyond the fact that he was a human being, there was the fact that Chakotay owed him at least a life for a life. But, my god, the man attracted trouble the way a starship attracted baryon particles.

And, how the hell was Chakotay going to get him out of _this?_ It wasn’t simply a matter of going in and getting him: the priestess had made that pretty damn clear. No one entered; no one left. And even if they did and he could slip in, or if he could climb that tree unseen and drop over the wall: “ _The palace has been made sacred by the daumna’s death_ ,” the priestess had said; and he couldn’t profane a sacred place with his unwanted presence. _But this is life and death_ , he thought. And it was just a palace where someone had died. Surely saving Paris’s life was itself an act sacred enough to— _To what?_ his conscience demanded. _To despoil someone’s sacred place? Did you learn nothing from your father? Since when do YOU get to choose what’s sacred and what’s not, hotshot? Since when do you get to stomp into someone’s temple and start making demands?_ He closed his eyes wearily. And even if he could shut down his conscience and his soul long enough to storm in and drag out Paris, there was the little matter of keeping them both alive until _Voyager_ swooped in and saved their butts.

A rustle nearby; and Chakotay turned to see a man and a little girl removing their shoes not far from the gate. Then they walked right up to it, and the man knelt and placed his hands in the dust before putting his palms on either side of the crack where the two sides of the gate met. There he murmured fervently into the crack. The guards looked on.

A minute or so later, the man helped the child to mimic him, to place her dusty palms on the gate and whisper. When they rose and went back the way they had come, her face glowed with delight of someone who’d accomplished a very grownup act; he had the satisfied air of someone who’d cleansed his soul in prayer.

“You look very confused.” The priest’s voice was less condescending than it could have been.

Chakotay turned. The priest stood motionless a meter away. How long had he been there? “I _am_ confused.”

“Surely your people pray to those who have gone before.”

“Is that what they were doing?”

“They were speaking their hearts to the daumna, telling her of their love, and asking for her blessings. Even after death, the daumna still cares for her people.”

“But she’s asking some of them to die.”

The priest looked at him for a moment. “She has invited some to live on with her and to share in the life after this.”

Semantics.

The priest moved toward him. “We gave up space flight generations ago, because we cannot bear to be so far from the world which loves us; we forget that there are those who do not share our ways. I’m afraid you are very sad to be losing your friend.”

“There has to be a way to get him out of there.”

“He’s the daumna’s now. He accepted the veil from her. Try to understand that he will find much joy and peace in the life beyond this. It’s what he has chosen.”

“But he didn’t— We really had no idea what it meant when she gave him that piece of cloth.”

The priest blinked for a minute. Then he gave a little sigh. “We should have thought—the _daumna_ should have thought. But it didn’t occur to her that he wouldn’t know. She saw a beautiful and exotic young man who made her laugh, and knew he would be a pleasant companion in the life after this.”

“Then we can get him out.”

“I’m sorry,” the priest said gently. “He belongs to the daumna now. That is—” His eyes flickered to Chakotay’s.

“Yes?”

“Was he promised to another?” The priest seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Does his life belong to another?”

“Yes,” Chakotay heard his mouth say.

“To whom?”

The question ricocheted through Chakotay’s skull for about four nanoseconds. “To me. He belongs to me.”

The priest looked deeply into his eyes, and Chakotay hoped to hell that the workings of the Chaauree mind were different from humans, that the man couldn’t tell that he was lying his head off.

But the man seemed to see something that satisfied him; he smiled slightly and visibly relaxed. “This will remind us,” he said, “that the ways of others are not our ways. It will be yours to claim him.”

“Then we can get him out?”

“Not out of the palace. If you will wait until the burial, it is your right to claim him.”

Thank the spirits. Chakotay felt weak with sudden relief.

“This will be a memorable funeral,” said the priest. “There has not been such a claiming in many generations.”

“Why didn’t Wa’uuta just invite her own concubines?”

For the first time, the priest seemed taken aback. “She had no concubines. As daumnaii have been since the beginning of civilization, she was celibate.”

_What?_

The priest looked amused at Chakotay’s astonishment. “We continue to surprise each other. I thought your people understood this; it seemed to us that Daumna Janeway is also celibate. Is she not?”

Chakotay did that thing where he locked every muscle for about ten seconds, so he wouldn’t laugh. Then he took a careful breath and let it out slowly. “Our leaders,” he said, “are not required to be celibate. Captain Janeway … makes her own choices.” And, she’d be making new choices before the end of the trip, if he could just get the seduction right.

A twinkle of amusement. “I see,” said the priest. “It is good to learn of other customs and other ways.”

Indeed. Chakotay gestured toward the square. “I’m afraid that nothing I see makes much sense to me.”

“Ah! All is as it should be. The daumna’s people prepare themselves for her successor. The priests prepare the path.” His smile expressed satisfaction at having made all clear.

“Uh— I don’t—” Chakotay pointed. “What are the cloths hanging from the windows?”

“The banners of the clans represented in each household.”

“There are so many.”

“Many households belong to two different clans. Before the daumna brought us peace, each household would have been allied with only one. This is a tribute to the daumna’s peace, and a reminder to her successor of what she wrought.”

“Her successor?”

“Her nephew. She selected, and he accepted.”

“I see,” Chakotay said, not seeing at all. “May I ask what the priests are doing near the wall?”

“They prepare the path. Those outside the palace who will journey with the daumna to her home beyond life will walk it in preparation for the journey.”

“You mean, not everyone’s in the palace?”

“One tends a flock of giiba’a on the mountain. And, I believe, some journeyed to the next village to trade.”

And they were coming back here to— Mygod, Chakotay couldn’t fathom it: people dying because of some old woman’s vanity.

The priest regarded him with professional patience. “You must remember that those who will journey with the daumna do so with the gladdest of hearts. It is their desire and their choice. They truly do not wish to remain here without her.”

“They loved Wa’uuta that much?”

The man winced. “It is … not done … to speak the name of the dead.”

Oh, shit. As if there weren’t enough precedents on Earth for him to know better than to mention the name of the dead. “I apologize,” Chakotay said. “It is also so among some of my people. But the tradition has fallen out of use. I should have thought. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“It is forgiven,” said the priest. “And the answer to your question is, ‘Yes.’ They have that much love.”

“Is that why it’s been generations since anyone’s been claimed at a funeral?”

“Partly. And partly because the claiming must come from a depth of knowledge that few experience. To claim your spouse, you must choose him from the others, unhesitatingly.” He looked at Chakotay. “You get one chance.”

One chance. But surely Chakotay could— He thought of that silky cloth. Surely it didn’t cover anyone completely. And it was so damn thin. _Something_ distinctive had to show. Shit—just Paris’s cocky walk would be enough to set him apart. And, there was always the tricorder ….

“One chance should do it,” Chakotay said. “My relationship with Paris has always been … special.”

“Your spouse is fortunate,” the priest said, smiling. “Such a claiming would make you and he the stuff of legend for generations to come.”

The man bowed and left him then, stopping to speak to a group of awe-struck little boys. Chakotay watched him lead them in prayers at the daumna’s gate.

 _Your spouse_. Oh, shit. The priest thought Chakotay and Paris were married. _Your spouse_. Well, Chakotay could live with the lie, just so long as it got Paris out of that damned grave. _Your spouse_.

Then it hit him with a force that made him gasp. _It is not done—_ The man had never used Paris’s name. _—to speak the name—_ Never used his name at all, even after he thought Paris was Chakotay’s spouse. _It is not done to speak the name of the dead_.

And, watching those eager little worshippers at the gates of the daumna’s dead palace, Chakotay felt a chill so sudden and so cold that he had trouble finding his breath.

——

The chill lingered as evening came on. Chakotay had spent the rest of the afternoon finding lodging and arguing with his panic.

He would recognize Paris. It was inevitable that he would recognize Paris, even if the cloth was some sort of veil. The arrogant set of that head, the self-important walk: the miracle would be if he _didn’t_ recognize Paris.

Dickering with the landlady at the inn right on the square took a good fifteen minutes. The inn was full, and all she had left was the large room just under the roof, at double the price of a regular room; but it had its own bathroom— _Five fingers on each hand. The Chaauree had four. Paris had five. A guy could spot that kind of thing. ANYBODY could spot that kind of thing._

Of course, getting their things from the palace was out of the question. Chakotay set out in search of toothbrush and soap. — _So, five fingers would tell him that it was Paris, even hidden by the cloth. And, mygod, the man had five toes on each foot, too. So, if he was barefoot— And, besides, if he was barefoot, his skin would be a different color from the grayish Chaauree—_

“Toothbrush” apparently wasn’t a universal word, but tooth cleaning was a universal concept. Soap took longer. _—And the tricorder. The tricorder would also tell him that it was Paris. Because Chakotay would use the fucking tricorder even if it was cheating. A life was at stake. If Chakotay hid it in his hand—_

Apparently no sale was complete without dickering over every aama. Chakotay reached down deep for patience, tried to pretend this was some sort of game, or scenario at Starfleet Academy, though it was just fucking soap, for fuck’s sake. _—But he wouldn’t need the tricorder, because he was going to recognize Paris under that flimsy red cloth. There was just too much distinctive about Paris, too much that set him apart from the Chaauree. And, even if Chakotay couldn’t see Paris’s feet, he could see Paris’s footprints, and if Paris was barefoot, there would be those five-toed footprints, and Chakotay could follow them right up to the right guy—_

Meals were extra, and not really worth it. But Chakotay ate, because it was time for food. He would recognize Paris.

He took a deep breath, tried to still the part of him that was arguing that there had to be a catch. He would recognize Paris.

Around him, in the square, torches were being lighted against the soft dusk. Under their canopy, the priests drank tea. Soft murmurs of voices, and lights being lit inside the houses. Chakotay breathed deep and tried to settle into the coziness of the golden light. He would recognize Paris.

And it worked. The doubter inside him hushed, silenced by the unshakeable logic that Chakotay would recognize Paris, even in a crowd. And, remembering the earthy old woman with the wicked smile, Chakotay was sure there would be a crowd. _Celibate._

Now, if it was Janeway— Who would she give veils to?

He snorted impatiently at himself, shoved the thought from his mind. _You weren’t going to think about her that way, until—_ Until she made herself known. Until that prickle of attraction was acknowledged by both. Which, at the rate they were going, might be a couple decades. “ _Your spouse_ ,” the priest said inside Chakotay’s head. Well, shit.

Knots of villagers gathered for a while outside the tavern. Chakotay strolled over to—well, in all honesty, to eavesdrop.

The beer was good, and the company even better. “I hear you’ll be claiming your spouse,” the man to his left said by way of greeting. “We’ve not had such a claiming since—since—”

“Since the eighth daumna,” a companion supplied for him.

“No. It was the sixth,” another man broke in. “The eighth daumna had only two concubines.”

“Oh, yes! How could I forget? The _siiiiixth!_ ”

And from the general laughter, it was clear that the sixth daumna was the byword for multiple concubines.

“I remember the tenth,” an old man said dreamily. “The one before ours. Five concubines, all beautiful young men who kept themselves virgin for him. _He_ was a lucky one.”

“But none of them as exotic as what _you’ll_ be claiming!” someone across the table said to Chakotay. “That pink skin, and five fingers on each hand— _five fingers!_ — _our_ daumna certainly has a taste for variety!” His cheerful admiration seemed unforced.

“Five fingers.” The man to Chakotay’s left frowned at Chakotay’s hand. “I don’t know if I would like to be touched by someone with five fingers. I could overlook the creepy brown skin—especially in the dark—but I don’t know about the five fingers.”

“Our daumna has no such qualms!” said the man across the table. “The ways of the daumna!”

The phrase was more than just an expression of admiration; it seemed it was a toast.

“The ways of the daumna!” the others thundered; and knocked back their beer with great satisfaction.

“Do you remember the time,” the man to Chakotay’s right said, motioning for more beer, “that trader cheated her potboy out of half his pay? And she went after him on that big warbraagh of hers? And when she caught up to him—”

The stories—and the beer—lasted well into the night, as they were joined by half the village. Children came to the tavern with their parents, fell asleep on fathers’ shoulders, listened entranced with their heads in mothers’ laps. It was, Chakotay realized, a sort of wake. The daumna was remembered, drunk to, admired. And she _was_ admired; and loved. Tears glistened on cheeks even as people roared with laughter. Her laundress told about the daumna and the would-be assassin she drowned in her bath. One of her guards told about daumna and the griith pup she trained for three weeks as a gift for her favorite nephew, romping with it as if she were a child and weeping for a morning after she gave it to the boy. Other stories were told: the daumna and the lying taxman; the daumna and the rebellious clan leader. The daumna and the stranded shepherd was a special favorite: “Tell it again,” whispered an enraptured little girl; and Raabio—who smelled like he spent his life herding something four-legged—flushed and told it again, so drunk on beer and attention that this time he became the story: became the terrified shepherd watching the water rise higher and higher, became the enraged river, became the determined daumna, became the snorting warbraagh she rode into swift water. Listening and watching, Chakotay realized that the stories allowed them to remember, to imprint history on their children—and, ultimately, to let go, to ease the eleventh daumna into legend.

He nursed one beer the entire evening, though he could have gotten drunker than the daumna did when she drank the rebellious clan leader under the table and into submission; because everyone at the tavern seemed to want to buy a wuaash for The Man Who was Going to Claim His Spouse. Chakotay had the uneasy realization that he and Paris were about to enter Chaauree lore—whether he succeeded or not.

When the storytellers went home, he took a stroll around the quiet square, letting the stillness settle into him before going to bed. He stopped in front of the palace gate, nodded to the guards. The maze of small stones gleamed in the uncertain light of four of Chaau’s fourteen moons. The maze led into a small, three-sided tent. One or two lights gleamed just inside the wall, but for the most part the palace was silent, dark, sleeping. Or dead.

 _You old—_ He sighed. Hearing the stories tonight, he couldn’t blame her: she’d always acted while others waited, decided while others dithered. Not unlike a certain Starfleet captain he knew—or, come to think of it, not entirely unlike a certain Maquis captain, who’d led with his heart before his head caught up. Leaders were sometimes like that. But, _damn_ it. That didn’t confer the right to screw up a man’s life. Though— _Just whose life are we talking about here? Paris’s—or yours?_ Chakotay was afraid he knew the answer.

Sitting under his canopy and surrounded by priests and priestesses, the head priest was watching him. Contrite, Chakotay strolled over.

“I think you were not praying.” The priest’s eyes held admonishment—and understanding.

Chakotay snorted a laugh. “I’m afraid I wasn’t.” He accepted tea from one of the priests, waited as the head priest was served, then took a cautious sip. It was fruity and earthy, and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. Then he took a deep breath. “I’m very nervous about claiming … Tom.” He would use Paris’s name—be damned with not mentioning the names of those who might die, and be damned with calling Paris his “spouse.”

“It is not to be undertaken lightly. It is a moment of wonder, when a loving heart wars with the will of the daumna.”

A loving—oh, damn. “What sort of ritual is involved?” Chakotay wouldn’t exactly describe his heart as “loving.” Maybe a furious heart would be just as much of a match for the eleventh daumna.

“The ritual is simple. You advance and demand—and claim your spouse.” The priest’s tone implied that the last part was optional.

Chakotay felt stubbornness ignite deep inside him. Rescuing Paris was _not_ optional, and he was growing tired of the implication that it was. He would find Paris: the loathing heart knew its target as well as any loving heart knew its. That stubborn set of the shoulders, the fuck-me angle of the ass, the fuck- _you_ tilt of the chin— He knew the son of a bitch all right. No problem. And he had a tricorder. Really no problem.

“How many succeed?” Chakotay asked as evenly as he could.

The priest looked at him for a moment. “Not many.”

Chakotay found himself clutching the cup hard. He set it down carefully. “I have to try,” he heard his mouth say.

The man smiled with real warmth. “I know,” he said.

A rustle, and the head priest stood. Chakotay turned to find a priestess escorting a middle-aged woman who smelled strongly of animals. She looked freshly scrubbed and smelled also of a cheap, flowery scent. Worn ribbons were braided into her hair, and her calf-length robe was evidently new; surreptitiously, she dropped the shoes she was carrying and shuffled her feet into them. She looked frightened and defiant.

“The one who tends the daumna’s giiba’a,” the priestess said; and Chakotay watched in astonishment as every priestess and priest sank to their knees and bent their heads, placing both hands on the ground.

The herder looked around her, bewildered and apparently on the verge of tears.

The head priest rose and gently took her gnarled hands. “We do honor to one who will travel with our daumna.”

The herder blinked and hung her head bashfully, shuffling her feet—and then apparently remembered that these were new shoes, and polished them on her trousers—and then seemingly remembered that the trousers were new, too, and freed a hand to dust at them frantically—then looked embarrassed.

“It is time to start,” the head priest said gently.

The herder froze for a moment. Then Chakotay saw what he never expected. She looked up, and joy slowly dawned in her eyes. At her smile, he realized that for her some long struggle was at last over, and some new glory was about to begin; and he didn’t know whether to feel gladness that her life was about to reach its culmination, or rage that she was so ready to die for nothing.

The head priest led them to the maze laid out in stones beside the palace wall. Chakotay hung back, unwilling to intrude, but a glance from the priest, and he joined the handful of religious at the edge of the maze.

The herder’s priestess stood beside her, holding yellow fabric. Behind her stood a priest holding a cup. The head priest stood at the entrance to the maze, still holding the herder by the hands.

They stood silent for a long moment. Chakotay’s breathing was loud in his ears.

Then, “Who walks the path?” the head priest asked.

The herder stared at him. The priest looked expectant. The herder’s stare resembled the frozen fear of a startled deer. It was apparent she had forgotten her line.

The priestess murmured into her ear, and the herder relaxed.

“One who would travel far,” she said.

The head priest smiled and walked backward into the maze, drawing her with him. The others followed. They took a turn, and another turn; and the head priest stopped.

“Who walks the path?” he asked.

And, after a coaching murmur from the priestess, the herder said, “One who would follow her heart”; and they all took another turn, and another.

It was a path of smooth curves and intricate knots, Chakotay realized as he watched: a snarled path to the center, and a spiralling path to the other side. They walked the maze together, the head priest never looking anywhere but into the herder’s eyes.

“Who walks the path?” he would ask each time they stopped; and the herder would answer: “One who would cross the river,” “One who would seek the meadow,” “One who would see far.”

The whole thing was, Chakotay saw, a meditation. As the herder made her way along the path, as she gave each answer, she grew calmer, more confident. Her gaze turned inward. Her voice grew steadier. What her answers meant, Chakotay couldn’t think: perhaps they mentioned landmarks on the way to the land of the dead; perhaps they were simply words. Either way, they meant something to _her_ , even if it was only that she was saying farewell.

“Who walks the path?” the head priest asked when they reached the other side.

“One who would live her dream,” she said without coaching; and she reached for the cup and drained it. The yellow cloth was unfolded. Chakotay saw the herder’s face as the cloth drifted down over her, and he was shaken by the peace and joyful anticipation he saw there.

She stood for a moment. The head priest leaned forward, whispered into one ear, then into the other; and then guided her down to sit in the little tent. Once she was settled, she didn’t move.

The priestesses and priests sighed and murmured among themselves as they went back to the canopy. The head priest looked deeply into Chakotay’s eyes as he walked past. _Do you see?_ his gaze said.

Chakotay saw. He stared at the herder in sudden sick understanding. Looking at the cloth, so long it brushed the ground when she stood, hiding her completely. The cloth, so flimsy in Paris’s hands, but too thick and stiff to cling. Folds obscured the shape of the herder’s nose, chin. The shoulders could be anyone’s.

He felt his nails bite into his palms.

Yes, he saw. He saw, and the cold returned full force.

——

Everything really fell apart the next morning. Up from fitful dreams he couldn’t remember, and washed, and into wrinkled clothes still damp from a quick scrubbing the night before. Chakotay reached for—

Fucking tricorder wasn’t there. _Shit_.

He tore apart the room, though he knew it was useless, knew that the tricorder had been removed. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. _Well, hotshot—did you really EXPECT the nice primitives to let you use your tricorder in their quaint little ritual?_ He sighed. Fuck.

 _Walk it off_. He went to the window, looked out at where the yellow shape of the herder was motionless beside the maze, where the head priest returning to the canopy steadfastly met Chakotay’s gaze, and then inclined his head in greeting. Fuck.

 _Walk it off_. He paced, cursing himself, trying to ignore the growing panic. Just because the Chaauree didn’t use all the technology at their disposal didn’t make them stupid. They took their rituals as seriously as he took his. _It is a moment of wonder_ —and he’d been ready to sneak in some fucking little machine to make his magic for him. “Arrogance,” his father had said all too often. Just that one word, with just the right expression. “Arrogance.” Well, now Chakotay was paying for that arrogance.

With Paris’s life. _Fuck_. For a moment, Chakotay let himself curse everything he could think of: curse the fucking door to his room, which had no working lock; curse fucking Paris, who couldn’t keep himself from smarting off in some theoretically charming way; curse the fucking daumna, so ready to jump somebody’s bones that she even went for Paris; curse the fucking culture that forced the leader to be celibate—no wonder they looked forward to death and collected concubines along the way.

And right back to cursing himself for being a stupid moron asshole. Because at the back of his mind was the little niggling thought that, yes, Paris would be dead, but Chakotay’s life was toast, because nobody—but _nobody_ on that ship—not even Kes—would believe he’d done his best to get Paris out of the situation. There would be side glances and sudden hushes as he entered a room; there would be rumors and counter-rumors, and the sure and certain knowledge that Chakotay had finally seen his chance. And some of the crew would be smug, and some of the crew would be scared; and Janeway would patently pretend to believe him; and maybe the ship wouldn’t fall apart, but his career as a good Starfleet prodigal son would be over.

And the shameful thing was that this last was almost as big a factor in his panic as Paris’s impending death.

 _Walk it off_. He clattered downstairs, shook his head at the proffered breakfast, and went out into the square. He really didn’t feel like talking to the fucking priest; time to—well, to take a walk.

So he walked. He walked through the open village gate and out into the surrounding hills, rusty with lush summer grasses where insects buzzed.

Walked and— Chakotay stopped.

And found himself near a grave, a large one, being dug. He stared.

The hole would be round when it was done; he saw the stakes pounded into the coppery grass and clumps of green flowers. Around the grave were rounded hillocks—other graves, softened by time. Fuck. A team of Chaauree were digging it, with hand tools: Chakotay recognized the tavern keeper, saw Raabio. The villagers digging the grave of their beloved daumna. Fuck.

Chakotay turned and stumbled toward the road. It was real; it was actually happening. Somehow the grave made it real. Paris would— He caught a sobbing breath. Paris would be put there, lain in the reddish-gray dirt there, have dirt shoveled over him—

He retched, spat bile into the dust. _Do_ something, you have to _do_ something, you have to—

 _Deep breath_. He could hear his father’s voice in his ears. _Take a deep breath_. And the breath—or the memory of his father’s voice—jerked his thoughts out of their panicky whirl.

_What did the priest say to you?_

“I have to know which one he is,” Chakotay murmured into the wind, answering his father, who seemed just behind him.

_How will you know?_

“By knowing him.” Chakotay’s mouth twisted. “ ‘A loving heart.’ ‘A depth of knowledge.’ Just what I don’t have.”

A chuckle. _But you know what to do_.

“Yes.” Because he did know what to do. “Thank you,” he said; but there was no answer.

——

“You didn’t eat.”

Oh, damn—it was that damned landlady, blocking his way with great efficiency, since she was about as wide as she was tall and fit quite snugly in the doorway that lead to the stairs.

“I—I can’t.”

She said nothing, only looked up at him with her hands clasped. With her graying hair and in her slate-colored robe with tan piping, she looked like a particularly immovable boulder.

“I’m fasting,” Chakotay said. “I … need to meditate, and it works better when I fast.” Then, when she still didn’t move, he said desperately, “It’s … to prepare myself. To claim Tom.”

Romance melted her. She looked up at him in silence; and then a smile flooded her eyes and her mouth twitched a little; and then she stepped aside. He could feel her watching him all the way up the stairs.

Damn. He didn’t have his bundle. Meditation without the akoonah wasn’t impossible; but it was more difficult. Even so—

He paced, took off his shoes so he could feel the floor beneath his feet, paced some more. The rhythmic movement had the effect he was hoping for: it began to calm him, to bring the rhythms of his own body into alignment. He let his tension ease out.

Chaau didn’t feel like Dorvan V, didn’t smell like Earth, didn’t sound like the starships that had been his home. It was its own place. But it had the scents of dust and living things, the feel of the sun and the ineffable sensation of air that was alive.

He paced, feeling the heat of the sun as he passed the window, hearing the sound of a little bird just outside.

The cloying smell of dust; the rustle of a breeze through the uala leaves; the smoothness of the worn wooden floor beneath his feet; the chirping of insects in the summer grass. The pull of gravity aligning him with this new planet, with the sun, with the waxing moon now riding the sky—the one with the odd orbit, that the Chaauree called the Lonely Moon.

And here was where the sun rose; and there was where it set; and this was the warm north; and that was the cold south; and he was at the center of it all.

He lowered himself to the floor. No bundle meant no stones, no feather, no emblems of where he’d been, where he was, where he needed to go. But—

He gazed at the floor, visualized the bundle. He watched his hands open it—plucking at the air—and, as always, his heart feasted on the sight of what lay inside. Deliberately, he laid out the objects, let himself feel them in his hands: now heavy, now light.

When all was laid out, he gazed at the pattern, letting himself see the familiar objects in this new place.

The sun warming his right side; the cool shadow on his left; behind him, the day’s beginning; before him, the place of its ending; above, the power of the sky; below, the strength of the earth; and he at the heart, where all came together, centered.

He closed his eyes.

“Akoo-cheemoya,” he murmured. “I am far from the sacred places of my ancestors, far from the bones of my people. In this place I do not understand, I seek guidance. I seek to know a man I do not know, to save the life of a man I despise. If it is permitted, lend me your guidance. Show me how to find the knowledge I need to save a life.”

He fell silent, heard his own breathing, listened to the slow beating of his heart, watched the darkness behind his eyelids. Waited.

In the darkness, something stirred, unfolded. And he saw with the vision of his heart the uala tree outside the daumna’s palace, poised against blackness. His vision-self walked toward it, reached out, was not surprised to see that beyond the tree lay the hills outside the village.

He walked out, past the tree; and, looking back, he saw that it had vanished, that he stood at the center of the landscape of gentle hills, featureless except for rust-colored grasses and patches of low, copper-colored bushes. Nothing moved.

No sign of his spirit guide, but he sensed that she wasn’t far away, that she was just ahead, just out of sight.

So, forward. He walked forward. The sun above him cast no shadow; the breeze ruffling the tufted grass was silent. The hills were endless around him. He left no trail in the grass: it was as if he walked and walked and never moved.

But he reached the top of a hill, and waded through the grass to the top of another, to a third, a fourth—and he found himself looking at a circle of raw earth, a grave freshly dug, and a man standing beside it, knee-deep in the grass and perfectly at ease. He made his way down to the valley, to the grave.

He and the man stared at each other.

 _Shit_ , Chakotay said to Chakotay in dismay.

——

The man grinned. _This is your vision_ , he said. _Don’t I get any respect?_

 _Were you sent to guide me?_ Chakotay asked. Coming upon yourself in a dream vision: how damned banal. And, shit, had he really looked like that when—well, the guy was wearing Chakotay’s favorite jacket, the one that had gone up with his old ship—when he’d been a Maquis? Arrogant, full of himself—

The Maquis-Chakotay was eyeing Chakotay’s Starfleet uniform. _You never thought you needed guidance when you wore that uniform_ , he said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

Chakotay reined in his temper. _I need it now_ , he said.

 _To save_ — The Other shook his head with an expression of disgust.

 _I need to save him_.

The Other didn’t answer right away; instead, he sat down on the grass, dangled his feet over the edge of the grave. He plucked a few stems of grass and began to toy with them, weaving them together. _Why?_ he asked, finally.

Why— Fuck, this would take forever. Chakotay sat about half a meter from the grave. _He’s alive. He deserves to be saved_.

The Other looked at him and grinned. _And what you need has nothing to do with it_ , he drawled.

Chakotay suppressed a flash of anger. _Of course it does_ , he said. _Saving my ass has EVERYTHING to do with it. I haven’t been keeping that from myself. If I screw this up, my future is toast. No one on the ship will trust me again: they’ll all think I saw my chance to take revenge on him. And if we get back to the Alpha Quadrant, the Maquis won’t trust me, either. I promised I’d protect him. I owe him a life. I can’t betray that promise_.

The other Chakotay grinned, as if he’d said something foolish; he was looking down at the mess he was making of the grass stems. Chakotay himself had never gotten the hang of weaving; this guy didn’t seem to have the knack, either.

 _Why not?_ the Other asked.

Why not— _I can’t go back on my word_ , Chakotay said. _If I did, I’d be betraying myself_.

The Other looked at him then, looked pointedly at the Starfleet uniform.

Damn it. Chakotay rose to his knees, leaned over. _This isn’t about you_ , he hissed into that other glare. _Not every damned thing is about you_.

 _Maybe_.

 _This isn’t about you_ , Chakotay insisted. _I haven’t betrayed you_.

The Other let his gaze linger on Chakotay’s uniform. _Haven’t you?_

 _I haven’t betrayed you_ , Chakotay repeated. _I’m still fighting for my people. It’s just that my people are_ — He took a breath at the brush of a sudden realization, still amorphous, still out of reach. _My people are the people on the ship now. Maquis, Starfleet—it doesn’t matter. They’re all my responsibility, all my people. Even_ — He felt his mouth twist in a rueful smile. — _even Tom Paris belongs to me, now_. __

The Other looked at the grave. _Yes_ , he said.

Damn. Chakotay had hoped for some guidance. He sat back down. _Why do you hate him so much?_ he asked.

 _I don’t hate him_. The words were too quick to be true. _I hate the Cardassians. I hate what the Federation has done to my homeworld. But I don’t hate him_.

Liar. _Then, why are you so angry with him?_

The Other scowled. _He betrayed the Maquis_.

 _No, he didn’t. That was probably Tuvok—or Seska_. He’d realized it a while back, figured out how many times the raid that failed, the action that went awry, probably did so because one or the other had sent out a warning.

 _For such a damn hotshot pilot he sure flew himself right into the arms of the Federation_.

 _Getting yourself captured doesn’t constitute betrayal_ , Chakotay said lightly. _Just bad luck_. You ought to know.

The Maquis was stubborn. _He betrayed you to Janeway_.

 _No, he didn’t. She already knew I’d be there; she just brought him along for_ — He cast about for the word. — _insurance_.

 _He betrayed you on the ship_.

 _Not a betrayal; just part of a trap for a traitor_. The words came easily.

The Maquis looked at him. _He betrayed YOU_ , he said again.

Chakotay looked back. _Yes_ , he said, finally. _I had faith in him; I thought he was changing. I thought we were all changing. The insubordination— That hurt. All my trust … in him, in my own judgment, in my own leadership— That hurt. Even if it was to flush out a traitor, it still hurt_. And it had. _But what he did was nothing, compared with … with others_. He didn’t want to get into that now. _What he did was petty. The pleasure he got out of goading me was petty. I can forgive him. After all, Janeway’s forgiven him_. Like she’s forgiven you.

 _I don’t know what she sees in him_ , the Other said. There was a bitter cast to his mouth.

 _Maybe she sees something we can’t_ , said Chakotay. _Maybe there’s more to him than you can see at first glance_. __

 _Like you_ , the Other said. _Another little Starfleet project_.

 _Maybe_ , Chakotay said, ignoring the Other’s contemptuous tone. Perhaps. Two little Starfleet projects: damn, maybe he and Paris _did_ have something in common.

 _I wasn’t drummed out of Starfleet_ , said the Other.

_You left of your own free will. You left for a principle. Is that why we despised him?_

_Of course that’s why. The son of a bitch HAS no principles. He was kicked out because he lied_.

 _No_ , Chakotay said, realizing. _Because he exposed his lie. Because he couldn’t live with the fact of that lie. If he hadn’t confessed, no one would ever have known_. Damn.

The Other looked at him. _You sound like you’re on his side_.

 _I have to save him_.

_Why?_

_I TOLD you why!_

But the Other Chakotay just gave him the kind of look his father always gave him when he was saying something obviously foolish. _Is that the only reason?_

Chakotay refrained from ripping the other guy’s head off. _Are you going to help me at all?_

The Other Chakotay started fiddling with grass stems again. _Why should I, when his own father wouldn’t help him against Starfleet?_

 _You know the stories about the admiral. Family, tradition, and Starfleet; and all three are pretty much the same thing to him. He isn’t going to forgive a mistake very easily_.

 _So Paris lied out of fear?_ There was that contemptuous curl of the lip.

 _Or_ — Chakotay felt his breath catch. — _or out of love. Didn’t want to disappoint his family_. Something inside him turned over. _And then he told the truth—and_ _when he told the truth, everything collapsed on top of him_. Mygod; mygod. The thought was sickening.

 _Sons have disappointed their fathers before_ , said the Other.

 _And regretted it, and tried to make amends …_ Chakotay looked at the raw earth of the grave. _Our father never repudiated me. Even when I insisted I wanted the Academy instead of what he hoped for me, I still knew I had his love_. Unlike Paris. He felt a twinge of sadness for the lost.

 _So you forgive him_. The Other sounded almost disappointed.

 _Yes_ _. I forgive him everything_.

 _Do you?_ The voice was different, had that smoky purr he loved.

Chakotay looked. The Other Chakotay was now Janeway, captain’s uniform and all. She was weaving the grass stems neatly into a little braid.

 _Do you forgive him?_ she asked again.

 _I have to_.

She lowered her chin and gave him that smile that felt like his alone. _Why?_

 _To save his life_.

_Why?_

_For the ship_.

Janeway tilted her head. _Is that all?_

Huh? _Is there another reason?_

She just smiled at him; her smile had a tinge of wistfulness.

 _For himself_ , Chakotay said, because it was true; and she didn’t answer.

Chakotay looked at the open grave. _For—for me_ , he said finally; and this also was true.

Silence. He looked up, at Tom Paris, who was studying the unfinished cord Janeway had woven.

Tom looked at him. _You don’t have to do this just for me_ , he said.

 _I’m doing it for both of us_ ,said Chakotay.

_Really?_

_Yes_. Chakotay watched the deft hands as they wove one end of the cord seamlessly into the other—some complicated sailor’s knot. _Are you here to help me?_

 _Maybe_. Paris gave him a rueful grin. _Never much good at helping mySELF_.

 __ _If you help me, you’ll be helping yourself_.

Paris’s hands paused in their work; the intensity of the look he gave Chakotay was breath-taking. _Do you promise?_

Uh— _Yes_. Somehow he was having trouble catching his breath. What had he just promised? _I have to recognize you. How will I know you?_

Paris frowned over his work.

Chakotay put his hand over Paris’s, to get his attention. _How will I know you?_

Paris looked into Chakotay’s eyes for a moment. _It may be_ , he said, _that what you need to have, you have already_.

He fumbled at Chakotay’s hand. Puzzled, Chakotay looked down.

He looked up quickly again; but he was alone beside the grave. Alone. He looked again at his hand, again at the woven grass cord which in Paris’s hands had become a ring on Chakotay’s finger.

——

The world flooded back in a rush: shock, probably, pushing him out of the vision state and back to the smells of dust and sound of birds in the ivy. After that vision-world of muted sensations, the physical Chaau was clamorous, abrasive. He drew its sweet air deep into his lungs before opening his eyes.

Fuck: what had he just promised? Chakotay looked at his left hand, almost expecting to see the glint of a woven grass ring. What the hell had he just promised Paris?

The sound of another breathing met his ears; he looked up and started. The landlady, placid in a chair, looking out the window. A cup of something steamed gently on the little table beside her.

She looked at him. “You can have tea,” she said. “I asked the priests.”

Busybody. Chakotay swallowed a grin and eased himself to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. He stretched and picked up the cup. Something light, with an elusive flavor. He drank thirstily.

The landlady still hadn’t moved. Chakotay glanced out the window, caught his breath. Two more figures veiled in yellow sat next to the herder.

“The daumna’s traders came back,” the landlady said.

Chakotay finished the tea. His hands were shaking. No time, no damn time at all. The funeral was that much closer; the moment when he’d have to recognize Paris or stand by at his death was that much closer.

“Did you see your spouse?” the landlady asked.

“I saw him.”

She smiled again: that smile that warmed her eyes and then curved her mouth just a little. “He’s dreaming of you.” She patted his hand. “He’ll be with you soon,” she said. She rose to her feet.

“I hope you’re right,” said Chakotay.

The landlady took the cup. “You need more tea,” she said.

“You don’t need to—” Chakotay began; but she just turned and looked at him—one of those silent looks the old women on Dorvan V gave you, that brooked no refusal.

He followed her down the stairs.

Chakotay drank his tea just outside the inn, leaning against the wall. She was right: the tea was just what he needed.

The landlord stood placidly in the doorway beside him. The crowd at the saloon was listening raptly to Raabio, waving his earth-stained hands in some bit of story telling. Above the square, clan banners stirred in the breeze. Some little buzzing insect investigated blue flowers blooming in the ivy. The warmth of the tea, the colors and life in the square: Chakotay could almost wish the moment would last forever.

So it was that he saw the new daumna enter the village. Chakotay dismissed him at first: a dusty traveler walking a dusty braagh through the village gate. But something went through the square then, and he realized that everyone there was looking without seeming to look.

The man paid no attention; he just walked the braagh the length of the square, tied it to the water trough just at the palace gate. Removed his shoes, strode to the gate, and knelt to pray.

Suddenly, the square was full of watchers. The story-telling didn’t even pause; but Chakotay knew that everyone in that crowd was watching the twelfth daumna. People came to windows and glanced out—apparently casual. The landlady came out to shake something—and was a long time folding it. Some children stopped playing and stared at the palace. Chakotay went in for more tea and went out to drink it.

The new daumna’s prayers went on and on; and at last watchers began to drift away. The landlady looked satisfied as she came in; Chakotay saw her husband look inquiringly at her.

“Maybe,” she said.

It was sometime later when the new daumna finished his prayers and led his braagh to the door of the inn. “Is it possible,” he said to the landlord, “that there is a room for a traveler?”

“We have a small one,” the landlady said, coming up behind her husband; and the haggling was on.

It was like watching a couple of superb duellists, circling, sizing each other up, thrusting, parrying; and seeing the landlady warm to the battle, Chakotay realized just how poor an opponent he’d been for her the day before. The daumna was steady, insistent; and soon it was apparent that he was really enjoying himself. So was the landlady. Neither really gave a centimeter, but the deal was made; and at the conclusion both seemed satisfied and impressed.

The landlady went inside; the daumna accompanied the landlord to stable his braagh. Chakotay let his legs walk him through the village.

What the hell had he promised Paris? _If you help me, you’re helping yourself_. What the hell had he promised Paris?

The damned ring—what the hell had he promised Paris? A ring from Paris’s hands, knotted by those graceful fingers, from a braid shaped by Janeway—what the hell did that mean? A braid his own shadow-self hadn’t been able to form. What the hell did that imply?

His head was swimming. _Just quit it, Chakotay_ _. Relax. It’ll come to you: relax. RELAX, damn it!_

There was a tailor’s shop, and there also was Raabio, describing with his hands a garment which the tailor was mimicking with less enthusiasm. Some sort of complicated funeral suit, no doubt.

 _What you need to have, you have already_. What did he have that— Chakotay took a deep breath, paused to study some fat, blue poultry in a crate, beeping and gobbling in a melodramatic fit. What did he have? He had— His brain rattled around through the empty hall of his skull, looking for insight.

Chakotay walked on, fast. His thoughts kept up with him, though. _What you need to have, you have already_. And he had— He skirted a puddle of worrisome origin. He had— What he had was the sickening suspicion that what had driven Paris just after Caldik Prime had been honor, the breathtaking realization of just how alone Paris had probably felt after his father’s repudiation. _And just what did YOU do, hotshot?_ Chakotay felt his cheeks burn. What he’d done was accuse Paris of being nothing but a mercenary, which actually was pretty much on target. Paris certainly hadn’t joined the Maquis on _principle_. No: he’d joined for the fight, for the chance to get back at those who’d hurt him. And—well, shit—maybe for the chance to earn back something he’d lost. Observing Paris on _Voyager_ , Chakotay had realized that he was basically someone who _wanted_ to uphold a code of honor, was someone who needed structure, needed guidance, needed a leader.

He turned onto a street of ramshackle houses leaning against each other like friendly drunks. _And what kind of leader did he find in you? A damned poor one_. What Paris had found was a man ready to distrust, to humiliate, a man so immersed in his own hurt and sense of betrayal that he lashed out at the admiral’s son who’d had his way smoothed by nepotism—and who’d still blown it. Oh, yes, a perfect leader.

 _Oh, just quit that_. Wallowing in self-condemnation was just another form of arrogance. Chakotay hadn’t been _that_ bad.

But he hadn’t been what Paris needed, either. Too angry, too mistrustful. An admiral’s son kicked out of Starfleet had seemed just too perfect a spy, and Paris getting captured so damn quick—

Chakotay halted, felt his face heat. _Too_ damn quick. _What kind of damn secrets did you think he’d taken with him?_ Damnfool Paris had been captured on his first mission. _Just what kind of valuable, secret knowledge did you think the Federation would get from HIM?_ Tuvok: _that_ was a spy. Seska. Both there for the long haul, learning everything, reporting so discretely that Chakotay hadn’t learned they were spies until it was far too late. But, poor Paris stumbling into the unwelcoming arms of the Federation …. Chakotay grinned ruefully. _Fuckit, you WERE paranoid_.

Seska. Tuvok. _Or not paranoid enough_.

For some reason, Chakotay suddenly felt more cheerful. He set off briskly down a street that led in the direction of the square. The Paris of his mind—the arrogant, self-pitying, self-serving mercenary—didn’t— Well, actually, he _did_ exist. It was just that he hadn’t been a spy. There was no logical reason why that should cheer up Chakotay, but it did. _YOU were the stumbling block. If you’d just managed to trust him, he could’ve been—well, just about ANYthing. Look at what he’s accomplished under Janeway’s leadership_. Because there was still something there: some kind of honor, some level of loyalty. And wariness. And distrust. Along with some fear that all too often manifested itself in the kind of smartass that made sane First Officers want to just flatten him. But Chakotay could live with that. Just a little patience, a little time, a certain amount of gentle guidance—

“ _I’m_ the daumna, and you’re the _concubine_ ,” a little girl was insisting. Chakotay stopped near the little group of children to watch as the girl placed her spread hand on a little boy’s head for a moment. “See? That’s your veil.”

The boy rolled his eyes up as if expecting to see something, and gingerly patted his head.

“ _I_ wanted to be the concubine!” A littler boy was practically in tears.

“Here.” The girl rested her hand on his head for an instant. “Now you’re a concubine, too.”

The second boy grinned and hugged himself and bounced up and down on his toes, careful not to dislodge his invisible veil.

“But _I_ want to be a _guard_ ,” said a little girl.

“I need guards, too. Here!” The faux-daumna placed the imaginary veil.

“Meee!meee!meee!meee!” shrieked a very little girl, jumping up and down.

“No. You and Riilda are the priests,” the new guard said loftily. “You get to bury us—”

Chakotay’s stomach lurched. As he stumbled away, he heard behind him the little girl shriek, “Lay down! Lay down! You’re dead!”

——

He was still shaking when he reached the square. Mygod. Children played at being adults the galaxy over, but—mygod. He looked over at the palace, where someone knelt in prayer. He had to rescue Paris, had to rescue Paris and get them both the hell out of here, get them both the hell off this damned planet—

Someone had placed a rickety table and some chairs outside the inn; and the new daumna sat there, drinking tea. When Chakotay approached, the daumna caught his eye.

Okay. Chakotay sat down and was unsurprised when the landlady appeared with tea. She gave him that smile that started in her eyes, before she went back inside the inn.

The daumna chuckled. “Siilne approves of you,” he said.

So _that_ was her name. Chakotay realized that the daumna was trying not to stare at Chakotay’s five-fingered hands, and hid a smile. “I think she’s just a romantic—” He caught himself. Referring to the former daumna might not be in the best taste.

“She _is_ a romantic,” the daumna said easily. “The Man Who’s Going to Claim His Spouse. She’s very proud of you.”

There was a twinkle in the daumna’s eye that coaxed Chakotay into smiling. The daumna grinned at him, and Chakotay grinned back, feeling himself relax. There was something about this guy that he could like.

“I apologize for my aunt,” the daumna went on. “She’s a romantic, herself. She’ll be disappointed to lose your spouse—she always did have an eye for the exotic—but I think she’ll enjoy seeing you confirm your love of him.”

Chakotay felt his breathing stumble. He’d never heard anyone so unselfconsciously refer to the dead in the present or future tense. He watched the twelfth daumna serenely sip his tea. The eleventh daumna seemed as alive for this man as she had a week ago. That kind of faith was heartening. But: _confirm your love of him_. Damn.

Chakotay took a deep breath. “I hope I don’t disappoint her,” he said diplomatically.

“You won’t,” said the daumna. “She’ll have the memory of your devotion, or she’ll have him to comfort.” The daumna suddenly looked startled; and Chakotay realized that he hadn’t meant to sound so callous. He smiled a “no-problem” smile at the daumna.

“Not that I—” the daumna began hastily. “I mean, she has six,” the daumna said. “She doesn’t need seven.”

Six. The cup rattled as Chakotay set it down.

The daumna was watching him. “They _told_ me that you couldn’t understand our ways.” His tone implied that he hadn’t expected to see proof. “Aren’t you born to serve each other, in this life and the next?”

 _Six_. “We don’t expect people to follow us into the grave, just to satisfy our—” He bit off the end of that sentence and flushed.

The daumna was regarding him with something akin to pity. “How lonely,” he said. “To serve no one in life or in the life after this.”

Huh? “That’s not— I serve others. I just don’t expect them to die with me.”

The daumna shook his head, smiling condescendingly. “You don’t understand. You think it’s vanity or pride. For us, our lives with each other are the most important thing we know. They become so intertwined, that the bond continues even in the next life.”

 _Six_. Chakotay bit back some undiplomatic words.

The daumna smiled. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “It’s just that some people don’t wish to be in a life without my aunt. So they’re following her. You’ll see how it is.”

He already saw how it was. It was a waste. “Do you have many who will … follow … you?” He knew he was being rude, but he was sick of being polite about this massacre.

“I’m not the daumna,” said the daumna.

What? “I thought…”

“My aunt chose me to be the daumna,” the man said wryly. “However, the _people_ haven’t chosen me yet.”

Chakotay looked at him.

“After my aunt has led her people to their home in the afterlife,” the daumna went on, “I will go live in that empty palace and wait to see if the people accept me.”

“ ‘Wait’?” said Chakotay.

“Those who wish to follow me will come and swear allegiance.” A wry smile was working its way across the daumna’s face. “And those who don’t … won’t.” He grinned at Chakotay’s amazement. “The Chaauree follow only those they decide are worthy. They’ll watch me and see what I do and listen to what I say, and then decide. It can take months.”

Good god. “What if they—ah—decide not to?”

“It has happened that a would-be daumna has been ushered out of the village, and a new one selected by the people,” the daumna said dryly.

Chakotay gaped at him. “And the rejected one doesn’t just come marching back with an army and take over?”

The daumna laughed. “Where would I get an army? If you’re going to be daumna, you must give up all possessions and live on what your people give you. I had to borrow that braagh in the stables. I won’t be able to pay Siilne until somebody gives me some money. I couldn’t hire soldiers; and no one’s going to ally themselves with someone who’s been so disgraced.” He shook his head and grinned at Chakotay’s naivete as he finished his tea.

Fuck. Chakotay’s head was spinning. The President of the Federation waiting to see if— He grinned at the thought.

“And my aunt warned me when she decided on me,” the daumna said dryly, “that these are the most stubborn people she’s ever dealt with. Eight other villages in her domain came to swear allegiance before anyone from this village set foot inside the palace. I may have to outdrink them all.” He saw Chakotay’s smile. “Have they been telling the stories?”

“Yes.” Then, “Your aunt was an amazing woman,” he said. _Six_.

The daumna’s eyes glistened with sudden tears. “It will be a quiet world without her. There are many who are disappointed she didn’t ask them to follow her into the new life. This village alone would be half empty if she’d given in to everyone who begged to follow her.”

Chakotay fumbled for breath. Who the fuck did he know who could command that level of devotion? Who would he choose to die with, rather than live without? That he could think of no one suddenly struck him as depressing. But, _six_ ….

The daumna straightened in his chair, and Chakotay looked up to see a priest and priestess coming toward them.

“The head priest will see you now,” the priestess said to the daumna; and he went off with her towards the canopy.

The priest smiled at Chakotay. “I will be at your side tomorrow,” he said; and Chakotay fought the sudden clench of panic.

Tomorrow; shit, tomorrow. And he wasn’t nearly ready.

“It is a simple act,” the priest went on. “We will wait beside the resting place of the daumna’s body. When the procession draws near, you will speak the challenges. And then you will claim your spouse.” His tone and his smile made that seem the easiest thing in the universe; and for the first time Chakotay felt he could draw a full breath.

“ ‘Challenges’?” he echoed.

“Four times you will step into the procession’s path. Three times the procession will move forward. Those three challenges, I will teach you. The fourth—” His smile was beatific. “—the one that will halt the procession—the fourth will come from your heart.”

 _The fourth will_ — Chakotay forced a smile onto his face, forced his hand not to tighten on the table top, forced himself to look steadily into the priest’s shining face. — _will come from your_ — Felt ice spread through his body. — _from your heart_.

The fourth would come from his heart. As well kill Paris right now.

——

Meditate. He needed to meditate.

What he got was the landlady—Siilne; her name was Siilne—blocking his way to the stairs. Handing him a cup of tea with an expression that made him stop and drink it all down that instant. It was good tea.

“Thank you,” he said as she turned with the empty cup.

“You shouldn’t let yourself get so upset.” But her voice sounded oddly approving.

Upstairs, he leaned against the shut door and closed his eyes. Let the quiet of the room steal into him. Opened his eyes: lost himself in the intricacies of ivy-shadow on the wall. The sun, low in the sky, flooded the room with radiance. The bed looked soft, steady. The chair near the window looked mysterious with shadow. The worn floor was golden.

Off with the boots and socks; his tunic was draped carefully over the bed.

Chakotay walked, walked through the glowing room. Paced, until his heart, his breathing, aligned themselves; paced, until the glow of the sun filled him. Paced, until the whispering of his own breath became the rustle of the breeze through the ivy; paced, until the song of a little bird pipping in a nearby tree resonated through his soul.

This time, when he looked up from opening the imaginary medicine bundle, he found Paris seated across from him, looking serenely back.

They gazed at each other. Paris was so close, their knees almost touched. Chakotay could count the shades of blue that blended in Paris’s eyes, see the way the strands of gold and brown mingled in Paris’s hair. Note the network of lines near Paris’s eyes, the fine traces of bitterness at the soft mouth. He thought, My god, he’s grown older. And then, And so have you.

 _I made you doubt yourself_. Paris sounded apologetic.

 _I_ — Chakotay felt himself flushing. _I could always do that without anybody’s help_. No sense lying now.

 _But I didn’t help_.

 _You did what you had to do_. Then, when Paris didn’t answer, _You did what she asked you to_.

 _But the embellishments were my own_. The wry grin broadened when Chakotay grinned back.

 _Well, that was just your natural son-of-a-bitch qualities coming out_ , Chakotay drawled; and Paris laughed.

 _I haven’t really been much good to you, have I?_ he said.

Wha— _You’ve saved my ass more times than I care to count_ , Chakotay protested. _Not to mention everybody else on the ship_.

_And how many times have I humiliated you?_

_Not that many_ , Chakotay said stoutly. Then, _Not so many that I can’t forgive you. Besides_ , he said to the glow in Paris’s eyes, _most of my really complete humiliations have been my own damn fault_.

 _Not always_.

 _Enough times_ , Chakotay insisted. _Following my … my passions down the wrong path_. Seska ….

 _You’ve just needed_ ….

 _Structure_ , Chakotay supplied; and Paris smiled. _Guidance_ ; and Chakotay grinned at Paris’s grin. Now, what was that other thing he’d decided Paris needed? Oh, yes: _A leader_. Janeway.

 _And a new path_ , said Paris.

Janeway.

 _I haven’t been much of a leader for YOU_ , Chakotay said.

 _But at least you weren’t my father_.

Chakotay blinked at him. _You mean I_ — He thought a minute. _But I DID expect you to conform to my idea of what_ — He caught his breath at the flood of realization. — _what I thought you should be_. Just like the admiral. _I wanted you to be—I wanted you to be the Maquis warrior dedicated to the cause; and when you weren’t, I—I lashed out_. Just like the admiral.

 _And then I got captured_.

 _Before you could prove yourself_.

 _Or change myself_.

They looked at each other across the sun’s brightness.

 _I wish I were the leader you need_ , Chakotay said, meaning it.

_What do I need?_

_Steadiness_.

 _You can be pretty set in your ways_ , Paris said with a little smile.

Smart ass. _You need structure_.

 _And you do love those rules_.

Chakotay felt his mouth curve. _Guidance_.

 _And you’re not shy about telling us about them, either_.

They were grinning at each other. The glow of the setting sun washed everything red.

 _You need someone who cares_ , Chakotay said finally.

Paris’s smile was tender. _What I need, I have already_. The light of sunset was the color of blood.

Chakotay seemed unable to look away from the glowing face. _How will I know you tomorrow?_

Paris leaned forward. _What you need, you have already_ , he said urgently.

The light was dimming as the day slid into night. He stared desperately into the shadowy face. _But I need a sign_.

 _Forget that I made you doubt yourself_. The night was gathering. _What you need, you have already_ , Paris said; and the last light of the dying sun faded, and he with it.

——

Chakotay opened his eyes, not surprised to find that night had come, not surprised to find that the landlady was sitting nearby with a cup of tea.

“Did you see him?” she asked, watching him drink.

“We spoke.”

Siilne smiled. “You must be very close to him.”

Well …. “Our relationship is … complicated.”

She took the empty cup. “You must love him very much.” And she was gone before he could reply.

He sank down in the chair and stared out the window. _You must love him very much_. _What you need, you have already_. Damn.

There were more people in the square than he expected. _Well, the funeral IS tomorrow_ , he thought. And everybody would have come from miles around to— _You get to bury us_ , the little girl said in his mind; and, _Lay down! Lay down! You’re dead!_

He lurched to his feet, pulled on his tunic. Out of there; he had to get out of there. His head was spinning.

Even in the dimness of the square, he was a startling sight to some of the Chaauree: a brownish-skinned man with five fingers on each hand. He strode through the square, ignoring the stares, the nudges, the murmurs about The Man Who Was Going to Claim His Spouse.

At the tavern, Raabio was holding forth for a rapt audience. Someone tugged at Chakotay’s sleeve: it was the admiring man from the night before.

“You should listen,” he said. “There are good stories tonight. I will buy you a tea.”

Looking down into that cheerful face, Chakotay couldn’t say no. He had a tea, and then another. The man was right: the stories were good. Partway into the evening, the twelfth daumna emerged from the crowd to tell the story of the eleventh daumna and the untamed braagh, which dragged her across hillsides and through thorn bushes before submitting to her in its exhaustion; and the story of the eleventh daumna’s gift of a griith pup, which drove everyone to distraction by whimpering and crying for her for three nights. The daumna’s face gleamed with tears by the end of that story; and Chakotay watched the crowd warm to him. Maybe he wouldn’t have to drink them all into submission, at that.

A second tea almost led to a third, but Chakotay waved it away. Something must have been in that cup besides tea: suddenly he felt completely boneless. He stumbled to his feet and thanked the man; and Raabio was beginning his rendition of the eleventh daumna and the stranded shepherd when Chakotay walked carefully away into the relative peace of the square.

The cool night air revived him. He walked toward the palace, watching the four waning moons rise above its roof. The three silent ones in the little tent on the other side of the tangled maze; the priests quiet under their canopy; the breeze rustling the leaves of the uala tree: it could have been peaceful, except—

He turned his tired mind from the thought. No use hurtling himself against the bars of the cage the Chaauree had constructed for themselves. Those who wanted to die, would die. He couldn’t change a civilization in a night. Better to focus on the one he could save.

He looked at the quiet palace where the dead still ruled. Six concubines, and who knew how many servants and guards: _This village alone would be half empty_ …. Sickening.

But, Paris— He felt his breath catch, consciously smoothed it out. Concentrate on Paris. Paris was alive and safe inside; and he would be alive and safe on _Voyager_ in a few days. _You have to believe that, Chakotay_. Paris …. _What I need, I have already_ , Paris whispered in his mind. Oh, Paris, you poor fool.

He strode close, under the watchful eyes of the guards, and placed a hand on either gate, closed his eyes, let his forehead rest on the weathered wood. _Paris_ , he thought. _I’ll get you out. I’ll get you away from her_. Not quite a prayer, and certainly not to the daumna. _Paris. Paris. Paris_. What you need, you have already. But he had nothing. _I’ll find you, Paris. Paris_. He had nothing. And it came to Chakotay that he had to be drunk, because he was standing at a silent gate and thinking promises to a man he basically wanted to deck. But— _Paris_. There was something soothing in standing there, as close as he could get, sending comfort in the only way he could. _Paris_.

Comforting himself, too.

 _Paris_.

——

He’d intended to spend the night in meditation; he’d intended to sleep so deeply that his own renewed vigor would guide him through the ritual. Chakotay sat part of the night in the chair, watching the moon-washed palace and pursuing a vision that stayed just out of reach; the other part of the night he lay on the bed, waking from dreams that the funeral was over and he had missed it, waking from dreams that it was all a trick and Paris had died instead of the daumna, waking from dreams that it was all a trick and Paris was already in the daumna’s grave, waking, waking, waking.

Time seemed frozen in ice; in the space of a blink, the moons slid halfway across the sky.

He was ready before the landlady came with a cup of tea and a smile; it was far too soon when the priest came to take him to the grave.

Dawn gilded the empty road before them, and their shadows were the shadows of giants. The hills were crowded with small camps; and beside the road, people were stirring, rising to look at him. He realized that he and the priest were the first of the procession: the man who was going to claim his spouse being led to his post.

 _What you need, you have already_.

All too soon, they were at the grave. He could not look into it. The raw earth beside it gleamed like blood in the red rays of the rising sun. A ramp into the grave led down to darkness. On the hills around it, a crowd watched him. Somewhere, someone was sobbing.

Chakotay steadfastly looked at the rising sun. _What you need, you have already_.

He sat on the ground, closed his eyes, took a cleansing breath. Looked inward. He felt sunlight touch his face as the day began. His thumb grazed his finger, where the memory of a ring lingered on the surface of his skin.

 _What I need, I have already_. Paris had him. _What you need, you have already_. And he had— What did he have?

He had Paris.

He had the son-of-a-bitch smirk and the wry wit, the smack-me-one arrogance and the breathtaking talent. He had the self-pity wallow and the insolent courage after everything Paris valued was lost.

He had the hands graceful on the conn and the eyes blank with defiance, the soft mouth sweet-talking a whore and the jaw tightening as Paris hauled Chakotay out of an abyss.

He had Harry Kim’s steadfastness (and loving disapproval); he had Janeway’s confidence (and fond exasperation). He had the artistry with a holoprogram. He had the small-boy enthusiasm for the past.

He had the delight when baby Naomi Wildman grabbed Paris’s finger and wouldn’t let go. He had the preternatural ability to find just where a razor-sharp comment would cut the deepest.

He had the gentleness in sickbay and the mooning over Kes and the who-me? astonishment when the three women Paris was dating simultaneously circled for the kill.

He had the bull-headed stubbornness refusing to give in when giving in was the only option.

He had the sense of honor that tried to undo a panicky impulse and destroyed a life.

He had Paris.

The murmur of the breeze told Chakotay when the procession passed through the gate of the village. The keening in the crowd told him when it was close enough to open his eyes and rise to his feet.

The sun was high in a hard-blue sky. The Lonely Moon was a white smudge just above the horizon. Against the drabness of the assembled mourners, the procession was a glory of color: white-wrapped corpse borne on the shoulders of grim guards, the religious clad in cobalt blue guiding figures veiled in yellow or in— Chakotay caught his breath. —in red.

As the procession advanced, the mourners beside the road keened and sobbed, rocked and wept. Wails resolved themselves into prayers; prayers lengthened into howls. In front of the corpse, the head priest walked as serenely as if he were walking alone.

When Chakotay stepped out in front of the procession, silence began to sift in.

The procession stopped.

The head priest looked at him for a moment. “Who stands between?” he asked conversationally; and in the silence that followed, Chakotay heard a spiral of birdsong.

“One from the living to challenge the dead,” Chakotay answered.

The priest inclined his head and strode forward.

Chakotay stepped into his way.

“Who stands between?” the priest inquired.

“One from the living who follows his heart.” Chakotay could feel his own priest behind him, a support ready to give answers he didn’t need.

The head priest started forward. Chakotay stepped into his path.

“Who stands between?” asked the priest.

“One from the living who seeks what he loves.”

The head priest started around him. Chakotay let a heartbeat go by and stepped once more into his path.

The priest looked straight into Chakotay’s eyes.

“Who stands between?” he asked.

The breeze ruffled the grass alongside the road; the spiral of birdsong unfurled from the sky.

“One who would claim another for life,” Chakotay heard his voice say.

The head priest regarded him for a moment, actually seemed to consider what Chakotay had just said. Then he bowed and stepped aside.

“Come forward, then, and claim him.”

Chakotay felt his knees wobble. He stepped forward, was guided by his priest past the guards bearing the daumna’s body, through the priests and priestesses who bowed as he passed, to the two ragged lines of red-veiled figures who stood still as death. Seven.

He stopped.

 _Paris_. Chakotay took a deep breath, listened to the little bird singing from somewhere near the sun. Every figure looked exactly alike. _Paris_.

And then he saw him. At the end of the line, over there on the left.

Chakotay started between the rows of concubines. Yes! That was—

Something stopped him.

He looked back, puzzled. The head priest had followed, had put one hand on Chakotay’s shoulder, had stopped him. _Huh?_

The head priest looked into his eyes, looked down. Chakotay looked.

Looked down at his own hand firmly wrapped around the wrist of the second concubine on the right.

He felt his heart stumble. _Damn_ it. No. This was—

He took a shaky breath. Let go of the concubine. Damn it, no.

Watched his hands go to the slimsey cloth, gather it. He couldn’t look down as those four-toed feet were uncovered; he could only watch his hands bunch the cloth, gather it, gather it. _Damn_ it, no. _Damn_ it.

Gather it. Gather it.

And, suddenly, he could stand no more; and he swept the cloth up and over the concubine’s head. And stared.

Tom Paris blinked back at him.

My god.

“Chakotay,” Paris said delightedly; and he stepped forward and kissed Chakotay full on the mouth.

It was a dry kiss, but still a pretty good one. _Holy_ — Paris had both hands on him, leaned into it, was giving it all he had. _Good god_. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

Paris broke the kiss and then sagged against him. Automatically, Chakotay’s arms went around him. He’d actually done it. He realized that the sound he was hearing was the breathing of the crowd, the soft whispering of what had taken place to those who hadn’t seen it. He’d done it.

Paris was struggling to keep his feet. Shit, he was _naked_. Desperately, Chakotay caught up cloth, tried to wrap the slippery stuff around Paris.

There was a tug at Chakotay’s arm, someone’s hand firm on the other elbow. A priest and priestess, guiding him out of the procession. He was grateful, except— Fuck: they’d been guided to the edge of the grave.

Chakotay frantically wrapped the gaudy stuff around Paris. Ohmyfuckingshit, he’d done it. He looked around for help, found none. The procession was moving on past them, to the ramp. _Shit_ , he’d done it.

Paris had steadied himself, was gazing placidly into the grave. Chakotay grabbed, wrapped. There seemed to be kilometers of the slippery damn cloth, and it kept sliding off.

Something bumped his hand, and he realized that the priestess was trying to give him something. He took it absently, almost dropped it, then realized what it was.

The tricorder.

Thank the spirits. He looked his gratitude at the priestess, put one arm around Paris while he adjusted the tricorder. Paris swayed and watched him. The pupils were pinpoints in the blue eyes. And, damn—that dry kiss meant he was dehydrated.

Paris watched Chakotay scan him, then looked again into the grave.

Chakotay looked at the readings. Dehydration and weak pulse and lower-than-usual blood pressure. Apparently some sedative with, oh, a lot of stuff Chakotay wasn’t sure about. But nothing overtly life-threatening. He scanned again to make sure.

He felt his heart start pumping blood for the first time that morning, felt himself take a deep breath for the first time in days. Paris wobbled against him, and he automatically gathered him close, offered him someplace to lean. “It’s okay,” he found himself murmuring. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”

But, something else was going on, something that was _not_ okay, and Paris—with his head on Chakotay’s shoulder—was watching it. Chakotay took a deep breath and looked.

Except for a circle in the middle, the grave had been lined with cloth. The daumna’s body had been placed in the center, directly on the earth she’d fought for. And the others— He closed his eyes against a rising dizziness. —the others were being placed around her, shielded from the earth by fabric. Still covered by their veils.

He forced himself to look. The concubines had all been placed in a group; and now those in yellow were being guided down the ramp, gently helped to lie down.

Chakotay surreptitiously readjusted the tricorder, took a scan. Blinked at what he saw.

The concubines were all dead. And of the rest, all but two—and one died as he watched.

He scanned the next one down, watched as the figure was guided toward its spot, watched the life go out between one step and another, saw the body tenderly caught and positioned by a priest. My _god_. Chakotay closed his eyes, clutched Paris’s warm body, breathed in the heady spice of his skin. Shit, how _could_ they?

They had to get away from here, away from the horror just a few steps away, away from the slaughter. Paris sighed, and Chakotay’s arms tightened protectively. He looked around, but the crowd was too close, too involved in its grief to allow them to slip through.

So they had to stand by at the grave’s brink, walled in by grief; stand by while twenty-two people followed their daumna into death. Chakotay locked his muscles against the shaking, kept the ice in his soul at bay with the warmth of the body in his arms. _This village alone would be half empty_ …. Waited for it to end.

A touch on his cheek. Paris was watching him, and caressing him.

He looked at the rose-golden skin, into the unfocused eyes. Found one of his hands stealing to smooth the tousled hair. The tender glow of Paris’s face was warmth against the chill. The sobbing around them blended into a sustained murmur of grief.

Paris put his head on Chakotay’s shoulder, sighed, nestled into him. Chakotay hitched at the sliding veil, felt something cold …. What the hell was that around Paris’s bicep? He fumbled for it.

An armband of dark metal, some cheap ornament for a prostitute. Chakotay fumbled with the clasp; and then, when he had it off, realized that he didn’t know what to do with it: didn’t want to drop it, because that would be an insult. It sure the hell wasn’t going back onto Paris.

A renewed keening; and he looked to see that cloth was being laid over the daumna and those who’d died with her. A quick scan told him that they were indeed all dead. He sent a quick prayer for the souls of the dead, turned his thoughts to the living man in his arms. He couldn’t help the Chaauree; he could save Paris.

There was movement in the crowd, and he realized that people were stepping forward to offer gifts: a carved flute from an elderly man, a handful of wilted flowers from a little boy. Chakotay reached through the crowd, held out the armband. The priest hesitated, took it.

The gifts were wrapped in an embroidered cloth and carefully placed at the base of the ramp.

And suddenly it was over. The religious climbed out of the grave, did obeisance to those who had died, settled beside the grave or started toward the village. Some mourners knelt beside the grave and wept out prayers; most knelt in obeisance and started back to their camps. The guards spaced themselves around the grave.

The landlady stopped beside Chakotay. “You should get him back to your room,” she said. She went on.

Getting Paris back to the village was the trick. He was amenable and obediently walked when Chakotay told him to; but he wobbled, and the damned slippery veil kept sliding off his shoulders. Chakotay tried tying it, but it wouldn’t hold a knot. What the hell _was_ this stuff?

Paris’s knees started to give out halfway to the village; and finally Chakotay wrapped the damned red cloth around him and hoisted Paris over his shoulder. He staggered, caught himself. Damn, but the man was heavy.

He felt Paris clutching his tunic, which meant he was conscious. But the entrance into the village was a lot less dignified than the exit had been that morning.

The landlady was waiting for them just inside the door of the inn. She stepped back as Chakotay put Paris back onto his feet.

Chakotay looked at her. “Are you forbidden to touch him?” he asked, suddenly realizing.

“He still belongs to the daumna. She’ll guide everybody to the life beyond, and then he won’t belong to her any more.”

“But _I_ can touch him.”

“You claimed him.”

 _And you take care of him_ , she left unsaid, because it was evident that that was what was going to happen. By dint of heaving and coaxing, he got Paris to their room.

Another scan: shit, the man was at the end of his strength. Chakotay brought water, struggled to keep Paris from swallowing it all in one gulp.

The landlady entered, then, with a tray. “The soup is for him.” She looked at Paris, and Chakotay saw the smile that started with her eyes. She looked at Chakotay, and the smile spread until the corners of her mouth folded into dimples. It was like seeing the sun after a long winter. The glow stayed with him after she left.

He scanned the soup: nutrients and glycosides and peptides and amino acids in—he grimaced at a sip—in some broth actually worse-tasting than leeola root. But Paris drank it, smiling at Chakotay between spoonfulls, and then drank more water. And then closed his eyes and toppled over onto the mattress.

Quick scan, and a relieved breath. Just sleep. Sleeping off exhaustion and whatever the hell he’d been given.

Chakotay tugged the blanket out from beneath Paris and dragged it over him, looked at the dusty five-toed feet and went for a damp cloth to clean them. Paris had cut his foot on a sharp stone: Chakotay cleaned it carefully and made a mental note to ask Siilne for ointment. Or a regenerator—surely they had that kind of technology.

She brought a regenerator with her when she came for the tray.

“How long does— How long does it take for the daumna to guide her people?”

“The rest of today, and tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night,” she said.

“So, a couple days from now ….”

“He’ll come back to you.”

Okay; he could handle it. He scanned Paris again after she left. Still sleeping.

——

He did handle it. But it was like caring for an unprogrammable android: Paris did what he was told—walked, ate, peed into the toilet—but he had to be told to do it. _You wanted obedience_ , Chakotay thought wryly more than once. _Well, you got it_.

Anything complex was out of the question. Paris simply ate, walked, peed—and gave Chakotay smiles of breathtaking tenderness. Chakotay’s heart turned over every time he caught one of those smiles; something was going on here that he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. But he found himself looking for those smiles.

And Paris slept. All day. All night. Sometimes he was peaceful; sometimes he struggled against something unseen.

“He’s trying to find his way back to you,” Siilne said the first night.

Chakotay reached for him, took Paris’s clawing hand; and felt it relax in his. So he stayed near the bed, soothing Paris when the dreams got too violent; and eventually he pretty much stayed _on_ the bed, ready to calm him. A couple of times he dozed and woke with an armful of naked, snoring navigator. There were actually worse ways to wake.

The village was quiet.

“Everybody’s praying,” Siilne explained. She indicated the religious, silently meditating under their canopy. “All the priests and priestesses are helping the daumna to lead her people home.” She looked at Chakotay, looked at Paris; and an impish smile brightened her face. “It’ll be rowdy pretty soon,” she said. “Everybody making souls.”

“ ‘Making _souls?_ ’ ” Chakotay wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

He liked the explanation even less. These quiet days weren’t completely quiet: mourners were busy covering the grave. The day after Paris woke, the day after the daumna presumably had led her people to the next life, the last timber, the last piece of sod would be ritually placed; and then a feast would mark the end of mourning. And that night, Siilne explained with a wicked twinkle, and for the next two days and nights, couples would be making love with all their might, for each time they made love, they would be making new souls to be born into the village.

Chakotay had to admit that there was a kind of earthy logic to this: turning to each other in a time of grief, making children to replace those who had died. But it didn’t seem to matter that he and Paris couldn’t have children together: the children would be born to the Chaauree. What mattered was that he had claimed Paris, and so their lovemaking would produce souls that would do honor to the Chaauree forever.

He looked at her delighted face and plastered a smile across his own and hoped to hell _Voyager_ came back before it came to that.

 _Shit_ , he thought after she left, _a full-fledged orgy after … after THAT_. He would never understand the Chaauree mind.

He was across the room and taking Paris’s hand almost before Paris frowned and stirred.

Paris eased back into sleep. Chakotay watched him, and looked down at their joined hands.

What the hell had he promised Paris in that vision? What the hell was the ring started by Janeway, finished by Paris?

 _Well, you dolt, you DID tell everybody you were married to him_. Though, no, he hadn’t: he’d simply allowed everyone to tell him that Paris was his spouse. But marriage certainly had been on his mind. That had to be it.

So they went through the days and through the nights. Paris was amenable to being showered. Paris was amenable to being fed. Paris was amenable to walking around and around the room to keep his muscles from atrophying. Paris listened to him like some sort of intelligent dog, but never said a word, himself. And Paris slept.

The last night came. As the sun set, the village was, if possible, quieter than ever. One by one, nine moons rose—full to nearly full—and washed the square with silver. There was no light in the empty palace. The religious sat quiet in the shadow of their canopy. Only a few lights dotted the buildings around the square.

Everyone was praying. Chakotay closed his eyes and, for a moment, joined them.

A sigh from the bed; and he was there in an heartbeat. Paris had been restless that day, sometimes crying out in his sleep. Chakotay sat on the bed in the dark and looked down at him, a dim figure against pale sheets. He took Paris’s hand in his and sent out another prayer for those who had not been claimed.

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

When he woke, it was late. The air was sweet with the heaviness of dew. Paris’s even breathing told him all was well. Moonlight poured through the windows.

And with a flash of alarm, he realized that they weren’t alone.

Moonlight boiled inside moonlight. Chakotay blinked, saw something step from the light into the shadowy room—something that carried its own light inside it.

A figure—no, two figures. No, one. A shape frail with age; a shape gleaming with armor. The figures blurred together as he looked, became distinct, blurred again. Wa’uuta as he and Paris had seen her; Wa’uuta as the straight-backed warrior she’d been in her youth. Both shapes in one soul.

He clutched Paris’s hand as the figure approached the bed.

And she bent toward Paris; and she stood looking into Chakotay’s eyes. Wa’uuta murmured into Paris’s ear; she spoke across the bed to Chakotay.

“You belong to him,” she said, in the old woman’s rasp, in the young woman’s clear voice.

The warrior looked down at Paris and smiled; the old woman looked deep into Chakotay’s eyes.

Wa’uuta whispered again to Paris.

A heartbeat.

And she melted into the shadows. He didn’t need to turn on a light to know that she was gone.

He’d never seen anything like …. He drew shaky breath. Never.

He looked down at the man whose hand he still held. _You belong to_ ….

Chakotay sat for a long time in the quiet room, listening to the quiet in-and-out of Paris’s breathing.

——

When Chakotay woke, morning light reflected off the wall near the door and cast a clear light over the room. Paris had kicked off the blanket in the night, and now lay wrapped in the scarlet cloth that lent an extra rosiness to his skin.

He was watching Chakotay.

“Hello.” Paris’s voice sounded rusty.

Then he leaned forward and kissed Chakotay thoroughly.

When Paris drew back, Chakotay struggled for breath. Paris’s grin was a mixture of delight and lasciviousness. He tightened his grasp on Chakotay’s hand.

“At least I didn’t miss the _entire_ honeymoon,” Paris said.

——

 _Honeymoon?_ “Honeymoon?” asked Chakotay.

“Yes. Didn’t we—” Paris looked down at his hand, fingered Chakotay’s ring finger. “—didn’t we get married?”

“Not that I remember.”

A second later, he regretted that facetious answer, as hurt disbelief washed over Paris’s face. But he didn’t get a chance to apologize, because just then the door opened, and Siilne came in with tea.

Chakotay was out of the bed and halfway across the room before thought even settled in. _Well, shit, stupid: you’re supposed to be MARRIED to him_.

She looked at him, smiled at Paris, who pulled the veil to his shoulders and smiled back uncertainly. Siilne took Paris’s face in her hands, examined his eyes. She opened her mouth wide and peered inside Paris’s when he copied her. Paris rolled his eyes at Chakotay, who was sheepishly sidling back to the bedside and trying not to look guilty.

“Drink this.” She handed the tea to Paris, who sniffed at it, grimaced, sipped at it, grimaced again, and tried to hand it back. She just gave him The Stare. Transfixed, Paris took a gulp and then choked and made the “bad taste” face, looking to Chakotay for help. His look of mock pleading stabbed Chakotay to the soul. Paris was taking refuge from his hurt in being a smartass. Shit.

“All of it.”

So Paris drank all of it under her unwavering eye. Again she examined his eyes, peered down his throat. Seemed satisfied.

She looked pointedly at the empty bed beside Paris, then looked pointedly at Chakotay. “You should be more comfort to your spouse.”

He hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could Paris’s sudden jerk of surprise. Siilne’s Stare gave no quarter. Chakotay sat down on the bed beside Paris and put his arm around him, drawing him close. _Happy now?_

Apparently she was, because she left.

There was silence for about two heartbeats.

“Okay,” Paris said lightly, “ _I’m_ not confused.”

He wasn’t moving away, either.

“What do you remember?” Chakotay asked.

“Wa’uuta dying. A bunch of us were taken in to see her. She—she died.” His face paled. “Then—then somebody gave us something to drink. I don’t remember … much after that.” But from the sudden flush in his face, Chakotay realized that Paris was remembering quite a lot.

“You almost had a second career,” Chakotay said.

“As …”

“A prostitute.”

Paris blinked. Then, “Well, I’ve always been pretty popular,” he said with a smirk.

 _I’ll just bet_ , thought Chakotay.

“Prostitute?” Paris went on. “For …”

“Wa’uuta.”

“Ewwww.” He frowned. “But she’s—she’s—”

Chakotay took a deep breath. “All the others died with her,” he said as gently as he could.

Paris stared at him. Then,

“Oh, god,” he said in a strangled voice; and he stumbled from the bed and staggered into the bathroom.

Chakotay listened with sympathy to the sounds of retching. He gave Paris a minute, sidled in to find him coughing into the toilet. Chakotay got him some water; then grabbed Paris when he tried to rise. Held onto him as he rinsed his mouth: the water in the glass slopped in Paris’s shaking hand.

“All dead,” Paris whispered. He set the glass on the counter near the sink, knocked it over grabbing the edge of the counter. “Oh, god. All of them dead. Mygod. Twenty-two people. Mygod.” Something new seemed to strike him. “I—I almost died. Mygod, I almost died.” He fell to his knees and was sick again, throwing up the water.

Chakotay held his head and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to soothe him and trying to pretend not to be there, all at the same time.

“Oh, god. Oh, god.” Paris was shaking hard. “Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.”

Chakotay got him up, held onto him.

“Oh, god,” Paris was murmuring. “My god.” Chakotay pulled him close and rubbed his back.

They stayed there for a minute; and then Chakotay got him another glass of water. Chakotay felt unsteady, himself.

He helped Paris stagger out of the bathroom and sat him on the edge of the bed, wrapping him in the first thing he could find. It was the damned veil.

Paris was still shaking, paler than Chakotay had ever seen him. Chakotay settled next to him, arm behind Paris, giving him something to lean on.

“I didn’t—” Paris said shakily, “I didn’t mean that ‘you owe me a life’ thing _literally_.”

“Well, I didn’t think Janeway would approve of her chief helmsman starting a new career whoring in somebody else’s afterlife.”

Paris laughed at this: a thin, shaky sound that made Chakotay unreasonably pleased to hear.

“How did you get me out?” Paris asked. Thank the spirits the shaking was subsiding.

“Well, that’s kind of the funny part. The Chaauree think we’re—” Word. _Word_. Had to be another word; but only one came to mind. “—married.”

Paris grinned at him. “Why, Commander, this is so sudden! I didn’t know you cared for me that way.”

Ignore it. Though something in him warmed to see Paris’s smartass, coming back pretty strong. “Since you and I are—ah—spouses, I could claim you.”

“So they think we’re married.”

“Yes. And—and I think it’s best if the Chaauree don’t find out any different. We have to stick around here for a couple more days.”

“Okay, loveykins.”

Oh, yeah? “Don’t call me ‘loveykins,’ ” Chakotay said, deadpan.

“Babycakes?”

“No. Not ‘babycakes,’ either.” Shit, look at that smile.

“Loverbuns?”

“ ‘ _Loverbuns?_ ’ How the hell do you come up with something like ‘loverbuns’?” But he was grinning.

“Observation,” Paris said, glancing pointedly at Chakotay’s ass. His grin was mischievous and lascivious.

Chakotay laughed. His arm curved to fit Paris’s waist.

“How did you … claim me?” Paris wasn’t moving away from him.

Chakotay felt his spine straighten. “I just— Well, I had to, um, go to the funeral and—uh—pick you from the others. It was harder than it sounds,” he said to Paris’s mocking look. “You were all wearing those veils.”

“Then, how—how did you know it was me?”

“I just … _knew_.” Chakotay looked away from the startlement in Paris’s eyes, then looked again; and felt his heart race at the speculation also there.

They were silent for a minute. Paris stared thoughtfully at the floor. Chakotay watched his face. Damn, he looked so tired. Chakotay’s arm tightened around Paris.

“Well, sweetiecakes,” Paris said finally, “can a guy get some breakfast around here?”

As usual, Siilne was there almost before the words were out of his mouth, with a tray of food. Her lips tightened when she saw Paris’s condition; she looked a “humph” at Chakotay.

Who felt like an awkward boob as Siilne got a wet washcloth to wipe Paris’s face and fetched another glass of water for him to drink and straightened the bed and patted him into place on it, with the blanket over his lap.

Then she settled on the edge of the bed and smiled at Paris, who smiled warily back. And she fed him herself some bowl of cooked grain, spoonful by spoonful, encouraging him with smiles. It was, Chakotay thought, a pretty blatant demonstration of what _he_ apparently was supposed to be doing.

He ate his own damned grain by his own damned self, with his own damned spoon.

And then defiantly snuggled right up to Paris while he drank his tea.

Paris’s shoulders started shaking; the instant Siilne had left the room, he started to laugh. “Mygod, you should’ve seen your face!” he spluttered; and Chakotay found himself grinning.

“Apparently I’m a pretty lousy husband,” Chakotay remarked and was stupidly heartened by Paris’s laughter. He watched him fondly. “You want a shower?” he asked.

“Sure!”

So Paris went in and had a shower. And Chakotay tried not to hang around the door of the bathroom and tried not to be too far away, in case— Well, Paris was still pretty wobbly.

But getting steadier. “Hey!” he said around the edge of the shower door, “wash my back?” and kissed the air a couple times at Chakotay, before disappearing into the spray.

Smartass. But Chakotay remembered the sleepy delight on Paris’s face that morning, the kiss—thorough, tender—and the hurt disbelief; and something cut through him like a knife. Paris had—Paris had wanted something, and Chakotay was too much of a coward to find out what it was.

His own shower next. “These clothes are filthy,” he said with a grimace.

“I can—” Paris began.

“ _You_ rest,” Chakotay ordered. “I’ll wash them.” After his shower. He dropped them onto the bedroom floor.

And emerged from his shower to find them gone and Paris swaddled in a blanket.

“She took ’em!” Paris said before Chakotay could open his mouth. “She came in and took ’em. I couldn’t stop her; she just took ’em.”

Typical.

Typical, too, that Paris had used all the damned towels. Chakotay dried himself with something too tiny to tie around his waist, grimaced at the clammy towels that _were_ big enough to wear. Damned annoying man.

Chakotay strategically positioned his towel-in-training and stomped into the bedroom. “Give me something,” he ordered.

Paris cast about helplessly, then tossed something at him. Chakotay let it drop at his feet; it was the damned veil.

“There _isn’t_ anything else!” Paris protested.

Typical. Chakotay picked up the fucking thing and wrapped up in it. He knew he looked as stupid as he felt. He let his glare describe to Paris just what would happen to him if he laughed.

Paris made a face Chakotay had never seen before, blinked hard. Looked out the window. Blinked some more. Took a couple deep breaths. Looked sidelong at Chakotay. “Red actually looks pretty good on you,” he said. He seemed to mean it.

Chakotay went over and sat in the chair beside the window. The maze had been removed; the canopy was being taken down. Chaauree were greeting each other in the square; at the tavern, Raabio—in a new suit—was waving his arms in storytelling.

“So, now what?” Paris asked.

“So, now—” Chakotay ran the possibilities through his head. He was _not_ about to tell the man about the two-day orgy to come. “So, now, they, ah, close the … ah … grave; and—and then tonight there’s some sort of feast.”

“Do we have to be there?”

Something in Paris’s voice made Chakotay look at him. Paris was sitting against the headboard, pulling the blanket tight around him; he was a shade paler than usual.

Chakotay stood, tried to make his movement toward the bed look like a serene saunter. “I’m—I’m afraid we do,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “We’re—we’re probably the—um—the star … mourners.”

He looked uneasily at Paris, who looked like a man staring into an abyss.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Paris said flatly.

“We’ll get you some.” The palace should be open by now.

But Paris didn’t relax. Chakotay reached, started at Paris’s angry flail away from him.

“Don’t touch me.” He stared within himself for a short while. Then, “How many days has it been?”

“Four.” He saw Paris blink at the surprise of four days gone. “What do you remember?”

“Drums.” Paris’s mouth twisted. “And singing. And somebody washing me for about five hours, and … you. I remember you. I kept seeing you. You were sitting by a hole—” Chakotay looked at him sharply. “—and, you were sitting—” Paris looked around the room, and recognition dawned in his eyes. “—you were sitting _here_. On the floor.” He frowned and shook his head. “I felt like I was, I don’t know, _lost_ , or something; but you kept finding me. And then they’d give me—they kept giving me stuff to drink. Kept telling me I should make myself ready, because I was going to be—be with the one I love.”

 _The kiss at the grave_. Cold stole into Chakotay’s belly, warred with the heat in his face. _Paris’s delight at seeing him_. He didn’t know where to look.

Paris was staring into space, his face as red as the veil. “Oops,” he said in a strangled voice.

Chakotay’s brain stumbled over this new information like an ensign over an algorithm. Fuck. And they were going to have to pretend— “I’m sorry,” he said.

“ ‘Sorry,’ ” Paris said conversationally, “seems to be the name of just about everybody I know.” He closed his eyes. His mouth was tight with pain.

“Did you really see me?” Chakotay asked after a long silence. “I kept seeing _you_ ,” he said when Paris didn’t answer. “I was—I was meditating. I kept seeing you in my visions.”

Paris was looking at him. “You looked upset.”

“Did I? You looked pretty serene.”

“Well, _I_ thought I was—” Paris’s mouth twisted.

Well, shit.

“She said I belong to you,” Paris said.

“Wa’uuta? Did you see her?” Just fucking ignore that other part.

“Last night?” asked Paris. “Yeah. She—she was _here_.” He indicated the bedside. “Said she was going to miss my exotic hands. She was pretty good-looking when she was younger. A guy could do worse.”

“She was celibate,” Chakotay confided, warmed when Paris gaped at him: gossip always did perk the boy up. “The whole time she was daumna, she was celibate.” A long time, too. “I think you were supposed to be her reward for all those years of doing without,” he added slyly.

Paris grinned, and Chakotay felt a glow inside him. Just doing his duty as a Commander: raising morale. _Of COURSE_ , his brain told him condescendingly.

“Well,” Paris said with a leer, “a guy could do worse. I mean, a _woman_ ,” he amended hastily. “A _woman_ could do worse.”

Chakotay flushed, glanced at him. “A _guy_ could do worse, too, you know,” he said lightly; and felt his breath catch at the startled speculation in Paris’s eyes.

 _That was a damned stupid thing to say_ , Chakotay’s brain scolded, later. An exhausted Paris had stretched out for a nap, and Chakotay watched him from the chair beside the window. _And malicious_. Because, if Paris really _was_ … attracted—Chakotay wasn’t even going to _think_ the word “love”; it had to be some sort of twisted _attraction_ , because what the hell would Paris be in _love_ for?— _attracted_ , it wasn’t fair to tease him about it. Especially since Chakotay had no intention of acting on that attraction. “ _You belong to him_.” She’d said it to both of them. “ _You belong to_ —” No intention at all of action on any sick attraction Paris might have.

Because, at heart, they loathed each other. That damned grass ring Paris gave him in the vision didn’t mean any damned thing, because they really despised each other. _You kept finding me_. Hated each other, in fact. Well—well, maybe not _hated_. But, certainly they weren’t in love. Paris was like some damned sexual butterfly, flitting from beauty to beauty; and he’d sure never seemed interested in _Chakotay_. Who was really not interested in _him_. Not at all. No, Chakotay was saving it for a certain fascinating Starfleet captain, who was—

He caught himself. Who was pretty damned uninterested, to be honest about it. After their sojourn on that Edenic planet, that had been pretty much it for their growing attraction, for their delicate flirtation. Back on the ship, and back to business as usual. _Starfleet_ business as usual. His jaw tightened against the pain. _You declared yourself_ , he thought, _and she did nothing_. And _would_ do nothing.

He leaned back in the chair, and he watched Paris sleep. _You belong to_ — He belonged to— He belonged to—

He wasn’t certain who he belonged to. But surely not to Paris.

——

Chakotay woke with a start. The sun was low in the sky. Beside him, Paris was still sleeping. Chakotay straightened, stifled a groan. _You are far too old to sleep against headboards_ , he scolded himself. But he hadn’t wanted to completely stretch out on the bed, where Paris was too likely to snuggle against him. He stretched, trying not to disturb Paris. Late. Better—

Chakotay blinked at the clothing on the chair beside the window. Great. Just great.

He shook Paris’s shoulder. “We have to—ah—get ready,” he said to Paris’s sleepy protest; and he saw the jaw tense. “We have clothes,” Chakotay went on.

Paris looked. “ _That_ ,” he said, “is not my Starfleet uniform.”

“Not mine, either,” said Chakotay. “Apparently we’re honorary Chaauree tonight.”

“Beats what I had on the _last_ time they saw me,” Paris said.

And didn’t look that bad, either. The clingy, ankle-length robe suited Paris; its mandarin collar looked good on him. A gray so dark it was almost black—which maybe wasn’t his color—but it was a rich fabric with a lushly textured weave; and with the loose trousers and short black boots, it made him look like some exotic prince. Chakotay caught Paris looking away suddenly, face flushed, and thought, _Maybe you don’t look so shabby yourself_. Sleeves were too short, but he sort of liked the feel of the soft, clingy fabric. Deep brown, with iridescent stitching at the seams. Sort of liked that, too.

“We don’t have to stay long,” Chakotay said. “Just make an appearance.” Get the hell out before the orgy starts.

Going down stairs in ankle-length skirts had unexpected pitfalls, but they made it, and nothing much got broken in the process. Siilne and the new daumna met them. “That looks better on you than it does on me,” the daumna said to Chakotay.

“Thanks for the loan.”

The daumna’s eyes went to Paris. “I can see why my aunt chose you,” he said; and Chakotay saw Paris’s shoulders tense.

The smile Paris plastered onto his face was palpably false. He put his arm around Chakotay’s waist; Chakotay tried not to tense up. “You can see why I had … other plans.” Paris’s voice was thin.

The daumna inclined his head. “Your love will pass into legend,” he said. There was something wistful in his voice.

Siilne’s husband wandered in, then, and they left. Paris’s grip tightened. Chakotay placed his hand on Paris’s, linked their fingers. They could get through this.

The square was filled with— Chakotay blinked. —with chairs and rug-covered benches. All sizes, all kinds. All empty. Scattered around piles of sticks waiting to be lit.

Siilne walked with her husband; the daumna fell back to walk beside Chakotay.

“Did my aunt visit you last night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did she … say anything?”

Er. “She … spoke of our relationship.” He squeezed Paris’s hand. “Did she … visit you?”

The daumna laughed. “Yes. I knew she would. And she was very much herself. She looked at me, and she said, ‘I gave these stiff-necked people forty-five years of peace. Don’t ruin it.’ ” He smiled. “She always did know how to motivate people.”

The walk to the grave was mercifully short. Chakotay tried to hang back, but when the Chaauree saw that The Man Who’d Claimed His Spouse was on the outskirts of the crowd, he and Paris were gently ushered forward until they stood at the edge of the grave, mounded over except for a hole at the base.

Paris made a small choking sound. Chakotay drew him close. From the murmur behind them, he knew that the Chaauree saw this as some romantic act; but he felt Paris leaning into him, shaking. Chakotay’s arms tightened. They could get through this.

And, they did get through it: through the chanting, through the head priest kneeling to speak through the hole in the grave to those lying silent below, through the muffled sobs that rose from the crowd when branches were fitted across it and earth packed on, and their connection with the eleventh daumna was severed.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. In the bleak silence, Chakotay felt that something good had ended forever.

Then, the chanting built again, hopeful words woven with the sound of the drums. The head priest started back to the village, chanting words about the lush hills, the sweet water of the rivers, the delight of children. And they followed him, back to the life of the village.

Paris and Chakotay trailed behind. Chakotay’s arm wrapped itself around Paris’s waist. Paris fiercely gripped Chakotay’s shoulders. Along the way, Chaauree left the crowd and settled beside campfires, calling to each other, offering food and drink to all comers. A few times, someone saw Chakotay and Paris and ran to them with glasses and a flask of wuaash. _Shit_ , Chakotay thought, the first time it happened: politeness was going to get them both completely sloshed. But the ritual seemed to be that someone splashed a few sips into each glass, someone toasted life or love or peace or the beauty of Chaau, everyone drank a sip, and the rest was dribbled onto the ground so that Chaau could share the toast.

“Waste of good brew,” Paris said.

 _Not so wasteful_ , Chakotay thought. It was a charming gesture from people who deeply loved their world. “You’ll get your share,” he said to Paris.

By the time they reached the square, the small fires had been lighted, and Chaauree had settled into the chairs, calling to each other, passing food, passing drinks.

Siilne met them with glasses and wuaash. “To love,” she said, looking into Chakotay’s eyes; and her smile grew impish as they drank the toast.

She presided over a largeish gathering that included all the guests at the inn and residents of several houses scattered throughout the village. Paris and Chakotay were settled on a bench against the wall of the building—next to the inn’s door—and, seeing the mischievous glow in Siilne’s eyes, Chakotay knew she’d planned a clear path between them and the bed. From the grins around the fire, the plans were obvious. An oblivious Paris slid closer to him; and Chakotay felt his own face burning, which broadened the crowd’s grins.

Food was handed around: cold dishes apparently prepared in advance. Despite the wuaash, it was a surprisingly dignified gathering. People told stories, teased each other about old incidents. Chakotay listened to the cheerful rumble of voices, looked at the firelight playing over the faces in gatherings all around the square, watched children play some complex game of tag around the clustered families. The new daumna wandered from fire to fire. Here and there a couple embraced. A man closed his eyes blissfully as another stroked his neck. Two young women broke from a kiss to blush at some good-natured ribbing. At Siilne’s fire, Saachna beamed down at the woman he’d loved for fifty-two years and murmured something in her ear that made her kiss him hard. Siilne’s husband touched her cheek.

More food was handed around. More wuaash was poured. Paris was looking at everyone around the fire, over the glass of wuaash he’d been nursing since they sat down. They were supposed to be married; Chakotay slid an arm around Paris’s shoulders. _There_. Paris tensed slightly, then relaxed. Wistfulness slid across his face; his mouth took a bitter cast. His fingers tightened on the glass.

Chakotay’s heart twisted inside him. Well, they could get out of here pretty damned soon, and then they could stop pretending. Across the fire, two young men—newly betrothed—held hands and whispered to each other. Chakotay accepted a glass of tea—damned bitter stuff, he discovered too late. He surreptitiously poured the rest onto the ground. Paris gagged when he drank his, but manfully got it all down. Shit, what a strong stomach.

More food. Berries in small bowls.

“These can be only given, never taken,” Siilne warned him.

 _Given, never_ — His face heated as he realized what she was saying. He took a berry, slid it into Paris’s surprised mouth. Paris caught on immediately and fed him in turn, to the crowd’s delight. Sweet berry, with a pleasant spiciness. Paris evidently saw the pleasure on Chakotay’s face: Chakotay was hard put to make sure Paris got his fair share of the berries. Which seemed to be the point: around the fire, couples laughingly tried to ensure that the beloved got the most berries. Huulthe gleefully stuffed his spouse’s mouth while dextrously avoiding the berry he was offering; then triumphantly ate it once the bowl was empty. And licked the other man’s fingers. And then licked the other man’s mouth.

Heat built in Chakotay’s groin. A young woman pressed her spouse against the back of his chair and kissed him lingeringly, her hands busy inside his robe. Siilne’s husband tangled his fingers in her hair. Chakotay found himself wondering what was in the tea.

Chakotay’s eye was caught by Siilne, who glanced at Paris before looking back. Her gaze melted into The Stare. His breath caught. Damn. He probably should kiss Paris and get it over with. The flash of apprehension across Paris’s face when he realized what was going to happen was like the cut of a knife. But he met Chakotay’s mouth; and Chakotay dimly heard approval from the people around them. He tried to keep the kiss superficial.

But when he pulled back, the heat didn’t die down. All he could think of was the soft mouth, the touch of Paris’s breath on his cheek. And he wanted more. The alarm in Paris’s eyes just before Chakotay _got_ more flavored the kiss with some indescribable spice.

Nearby, Wabii’s young twins were sucking their thumbs and staring sleepily around them as she stroked their hair. She smiled up at her spouse and then kissed him, and roused the children to take them home.

A storm of heat raged inside Chakotay. What the hell had been in that damned tea? Or was it the berries? Whatever was driving him, it wasn’t going to take him further. Siilne’s husband toyed with the top button on her robe, and she smiled.

Paris met Chakotay’s gaze with wary defiance. Whatever the hell was driving the heat in Chakotay’s body, he could resist it. For Paris’s sake, he had to resist it.

His tongue met Paris’s just before their lips touched. He could resist it: he couldn’t toy with Paris’s heart.

The pain in Paris’s eyes cut him to the bone. The world narrowed to that mouth, soft with kissing, to that flushed face, to those sorrowful and defiant eyes, to the sweet weight of Paris’s head in his hands. He couldn’t hurt Paris.

The heat roared through him. Not hurt him.

Their mouths joined.

The rest of that night was a blur of images and sensations: Paris’s husky breathing in his ear, the silky feel of cloth capturing them, the approving smiles around the fire. The slide of rich fabric on Paris’s smooth skin. Gleam of rosiness as each button undone exposed more skin for Chakotay’s mouth to caress.

Paris’s thighs capturing Chakotay’s hips. The roughness of stone against Chakotay’s naked shoulders. Paris beneath him, gasping, arching. Clatter of a boot landing somewhere hard.

Paris, rosy against the scarlet cloth. Siilne leaning against her husband. Paris groaning into Chakotay’s mouth as he slid the waistband of Paris’s trousers down over the firm curve of his ass.

A kiss tasting of spicy berries. Paris’s mouth on Chakotay’s throat. His fingers on Chakotay’s hardening cock.

The priest’s smile in the firelight. Paris staring avidly down into Chakotay’s eyes as they rode each other, rode.

The gleam of moonlight and firelight on Paris’s shoulders as the robe slipped from them.

Paris’s hands hard on him, fiercely gripping as—

Paris’s cock hot under Chakotay’s cheek.

Someone whimpering, “ _Yes yes yes_.”

—as pleasure overtook them both and all thought burned out completely.

——

Chakotay woke to silky fabric around him and warm breath regular on his neck and thought, _Huh?_ He eased himself up and looked around him and thought, _Shit_.

Naked. He was naked; so was Paris, curled up beside him under the scarlet veil. And from the state of both of them—and, to be truthful, from the relaxed hum of every muscle in Chakotay’s body—they’d had quite a night. Bits and pieces of that night flashed through his mind: the sweet heat of Paris’s cock seemed an integral part of each and every moment. Chakotay rubbed his face with his hands. Damn it. He hadn’t been going to do this. Damn whatever the hell they put in that tea.

He looked around for clothes, saw none. Great.

Chakotay eased out of bed and into the bathroom. Looked himself over in the mirror as he washed his hands after peeing. Bruises. Love bites. And damned well-kissed look in his eyes, underlain with a hint of smug satisfaction. _Oh, just shut up_.

Paris was awake when Chakotay re-entered the room. He sat up, smiled contentedly. Chakotay’s heart turned over.

“I—” he started; when the door opened, and Siilne entered. _Shit_. He sprang for the bed, leaped under the blanket a laughing Paris held ready for him. Why the damned woman never seemed to knock ….

He tried to yank the blanket up to his chin, trying also to ignore the slide of Paris’s warm, naked skin against his. Shit and hell and damn.

Siilne smiled approvingly at them and set the tray down beside the bed. And, to Chakotay’s horror, began to straighten the bed, with them in it.

“Um,” he said, “where are our clothes?”

“They’re downstairs,” she said. “Some are out in the square.”

Oh fuckit, they had— The blood draining from his face passed the blood rising to heat it. And, they’d done it with an audience.

She leaned over and patted him on the cheek. “You make good souls for us,” she said with satisfaction.

Chakotay buried his face in his hands. One of the difficulties of being an adult was knowing that it wasn’t really possible to die of embarrassment, no matter how much you wanted to. Not even if a grandmotherly type was tucking you in bed with a lover, after informing you that you’d scattered your clothes and his before an admiring public.

He looked up to see her surveying them with satisfaction: tucked naked under the blanket, with the damned scarlet veil over that. “Make us good souls,” she said with a smile; and she left.

Paris was silent for a moment. “Make _souls?_ ” he asked.

“The Chaauree believe that—that when people have sex after … the funeral, they’re making new souls to be born in the village.”

“Huh.” Then, “They _do_ know that we’re two guys, right?”

Well, if they didn’t before, they’d probably gotten a glimpse last night …. “Yeah. They know. The souls will be born to the Chaauree.”

“Huh.”

The touch of Paris’s skin on his was like a slow fire building.

“We’ve probably made enough souls for them,” Chakotay said.

“Oh, yeah. Probably.”

A heartbeat. The musk of that body was intoxicating.

“How many souls would you say we made last night?” Paris’s voice was breathy.

“Oh, about fifty, sixty.”

Amusement enlivened Paris’s face. Chakotay’s breathing stumbled at the sight of that ripe mouth.

“So, we’ve probably done our share,” Paris murmured.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Don’t need to make any more.”

“No.”

“Don’t actually even … _want_ to make … any more.”

“Definitely.”

“Because we’re actually not … a couple.”

“Nope.”

Their mouths closed the last centimeter of distance. _You shouldn’t be doing this_ , Chakotay’s conscience warned him.

Paris’s mouth opened under his; and Paris’s hand found his cock; and Chakotay’s conscience threw up its hands in surrender.

It was gentler than what he remembered of the night before: Paris’s wet mouth languidly caressed his throat; Paris’s hand slowly stroked Chakotay’s cock. Chakotay’s hands found the places on the hard body that had elicited pleasure last night; felt warmth flood him at Paris’s groans now. He rolled onto his back and pulled Paris over him.

His hand cupped Paris’s ass; his finger teased the opening. Paris bucked against him, whimpered. Chakotay tangled his fingers in the hair on Paris’s head, drew it back so he could kiss the strong throat. Paris’s hands were frantic on Chakotay’s cock.

Chakotay looked deep into the unfocused blue eyes, fucking Paris with his finger, while their hips bucked against each other. Cock slid against iron-hard cock, against their sweat-slick bellies, against Paris’s firm grip.

Their hips rocked, sped up. Paris’s breath came in soft grunts. He grasped the headboard with his free hand and rode faster.

Chakotay lost himself first, felt the white-hot pleasure overtake him. Heard Paris wailing over him, arching in his arms.

A heartbeat, and Paris collapsed on top of him and then rolled off. Chakotay felt the heat radiating from his body, a few centimeters away.

A slowing of breath. “Now, would you say we were stupid, blind, or just pathetic?” Paris’s voice was lazy and warm with laughter.

What they were was not happening again, if Chakotay could overcome that damned whatever-it-was from the tea. Even though every cell in his body seemed to be humming contentedly to itself.

“I think it’s the tea from last night thinking for us,” Chakotay said lightly.

Paris looked at him. “Is that what you think? You think it’s that?”

“What else could it be?”

“Well, there’s my considerable charm.”

Chakotay tried to ignore the speed-up in his heart at that sated smile. He leaned close. “Nobody’s _that_ charming.”

“And there’s my considerable skill.”

Chakotay caught his breath. “I don’t seem to remember any special finesse,” he lied; _except you were enjoying it so fucking much_ , his brain informed him, _that you’d’ve come at the mere THOUGHT of him touching you. Come hard, too_.

“Well,” Paris said with an obvious attempt at lightness, “there’s the fact that I’ve wanted to drag you into bed since that first insult on you tossed at me as a Maquis.” His chin looked rock-solid with defiance.

Blink. Chakotay’s mouth dried. “All that long ago?” His voice sounded thin.

Silence. Paris was looking at him. Then,

“I’d like to think the feeling could be mutual.” His whole body seemed to be clenched.

“It—” Chakotay said. “I—” He looked into the fierce eyes and couldn’t lie. “You’ve … never actually been … my choice.”

The blue eyes went blank with hurt. “Then you’ll want to take your hand off my ass.” The voice was hard as duranium. “Won’t you? _Commander?_ ”

Chakotay jerked back, felt himself blush. Shit: he’d been fondling Paris during that entire rejection speech. _Very smooth move, Commander_.

Paris lurched off the bed and into the bathroom. Chakotay started after him, jumped back as the door slammed. _I thought you only made WOMEN mad enough to slam a door in your face_.

He stood there a minute. Listened to the water running inside. _Blockhead, blockhead, blockhead_ , his brain was telling him. Fuck, his life had been so simple. He loved Janeway and despised Paris and pitied Suder and liked Kim and tolerated Tuvok and—and—well, whatever the _hell_ that was he felt for Seska. So simple.

Chakotay’s mouth twisted wryly. Simple. Simple always seemed to have hidden complications: psychotic Suder saving the ship, Tuvok and Seska turning out to be spies. And, Janeway: _well, you’re not really going anywhere with Janeway, are you?_ And … and Paris:

“Look,” Chakotay said in a hurry when the door opened. “I’m just not used to thinking about us as … well, as _us_.”

Something like a smile flashed across Paris’s face and vanished. “ ‘ _Us_ ,’ ” he said.

 _You’re not going to make this easy, are you?_ And, why should he? “Yes, _us_. There never was actually supposed to be an ‘us’ to think about.”

“Because I’m just Paris-the-whore, aren’t I?” He searched Chakotay’s face, and his mouth tightened at what he saw there. “Selling my skills to anybody who pays for them. I’ll pilot for anybody who pays my bar tab. Fuck anybody I think I owe. And I owe you.”

“That’s not it—” Chakotay began.

“That’s _always_ been it, Commander. You made that pretty damned clear the first time we saw each other again on _Voyager_. How much was I getting this time? Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

“That was then.” Chakotay met the glare. “Things have changed.”

“Not so much.”

“ _Yes_ ‘so much.’ ” He drew a deep breath. “ _You’ve_ changed. Or maybe I’ve just—just let myself see what was underneath.”

Paris’s look was wary. “You did drop the ‘Psycho-Commander’ routine pretty quickly.”

“Too tiring to maintain.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long minute.

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay said; and Paris blinked in apparent surprise.

“For what?”

“For—shit, for so _many_ things.” He put out a hand. Paris moved out of reach. “For what I said when we met again. For—for not noticing … what you really are.” He stepped toward Paris, who backed away, warily. “For this morning.”

Paris’s head rocked back at that.

“I know what it cost you to … admit what you did yesterday.” Chakotay moved close; Paris let him. “I—I didn’t mean what we did last night to get out of hand. I was only going to kiss you once and—” He was well within the field of that warm body; the temperature seemed to be rising. “—and get us the hell out of the orgy.” He let a smile touch his eyes, saw the answering smile dawn in Paris’s. “I think it was that damned tea,” he said helplessly.

The blue eyes went cold. “It wasn’t the fucking tea,” Paris said quietly. “Last night, it wasn’t the fucking tea. _I_ drank more of the damned stuff than you did. I felt fine. I had control of my libido. _You_ lunged for _me_.”

Chakotay blinked at him. Not the tea—

“You lunged for me,” Paris went on, “and you didn’t want to hear ‘no’; and then my _clothes_ started coming off—” Color mounted to his cheeks; his breathing was unsteady. “—in front of everybody.” Chakotay’s mouth dried. “And, then—then I didn’t _want_ to say ‘no.’ You had me stripped and weak-kneed before we even got to the stairs. It’s a wonder we even made it to bed.” Paris’s eyes filled with pain. “And, mygod Chakotay, you had a look in your eyes a man in love _dreams_ of seeing. And what you said …. Chakotay, you took me to bed, and you gave me pleasure, and you whispered about love; and it wasn’t … the damned … _tea!_ ”

He tried to get away then; Chakotay caught him in his arms. Paris struck out, trapped. Chakotay let him back the few centimeters to the wall. Fenced him in with his shaking arms. He had to think. He had to make sure Paris couldn’t leave him. Not the tea.

They stood there like that, not looking at each other. Chakotay was aware of every shaking breath, of the hard thump of Paris’s heart. Of the harder thump of his own. That it wasn’t the tea actually made him feel better.

“ _Well_ ,” Chakotay said finally. He looked at Paris’s set face, felt like an awkward nitwit trapping him against the wall like that; didn’t move his arms.

“I was afraid it wasn’t the tea,” Chakotay said.

Paris glanced up at him: a glance of wariness and hurt.

“I just didn’t expect it to be—I didn’t expect it to be love.”

Paris looked at him.

“But I should have,” Chakotay finished. “I should have.” He saw again the Chakotay from his vision, grinning knowingly at him, saw again Janeway’s wistful smile. This is what they’d been hinting at.

“People in love usually look happier,” said Paris.

“People in love usually don’t have to have somebody hit them with a rock so they notice it.” He smiled at Paris’s ghost of a smile. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m really screwing this up.”

Paris grinned at him. “I’ve heard worse.” He sobered. “I just don’t want you to decide to despise me again.”

“That won’t happen.”

“How do I know that?”

“It _can’t_ happen.”

“How do I know?”

How to persuade him? “The day I claimed you,” Chakotay said, “I saw you as you are; and I can accept what I saw. You’re arrogant—” Paris’s eyebrow raised. “—and competent and a smartass; and you’ve got a genius for those holoprograms that hints that you feel things more deeply than you want to let on.” Not that Chakotay had realized all this at the time; looking into Paris’s eyes was like looking into his own heart. “You can annoy me more than any ten people alive, and if you set up another gambling pool, I’m going to bust you down to ensign.” Damn, look at that smile. “But a guy knows where he stands with you. I know I can trust you when it really counts. You have an integrity worth admiring. Not everybody’s sense of integrity gets them cashiered out of Starfleet.”

Paris tensed. “I lied about what happened.”

“You panicked.”

He saw startled realization dawn in Paris’s face; but, “I shouldn’t have.”

“And I shouldn’t have lost my ship. It happens.”

Paris gave him a sly look. “That ship was a clunker.”

“That ship was a classic.” He smiled into Paris’s smile. “That ship needed _you_.” Joy was a beautiful thing to see in that face.

Paris looked at the floor. “What about … the crew?”

“They’re pairing off quite nicely by themselves, thank you.”

“You know what I mean. Are you going to—to tell _them?_ ” Paris’s jaw firmed, ready for the answer.

“I don’t plan to make it part of ‘A Briefing with Neelix.’ But I’m certainly not going to hide it. Unless you’d be embarrassed.”

Paris looked startled. “ _I_ wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“It might make some trouble between you and certain crew members.” Chakotay could list about sixty just off the top of his head.

“I can deal with the trouble.”

“If you punch somebody out, I’ll have to throw you in the brig.”

“That could be fun. Conjugal visits,” Paris murmured saucily into his ear.

“The brig’s sensors are pretty thorough.”

“I’ve always thought an audience—”

Chakotay leaned in close. “ _No_ ,” he whispered into Paris’s ear. Paris’s grin warmed him.

“I’m a little worried,” Chakotay said, “about what’s going to happen the first time I have to write you up.”

“What makes you think I’ll need to be written up?” Paris asked.

“ _Everybody_ gets written up. _I_ get written up.”

“You _do?_ ”

 _Oh, shit_. He looked sternly into Paris’s delighted eyes.

“So _write_ me up,” Paris said. “ _Dis-ci-plinnnne_ me,” he hissed into Chakotay’s ear.

Oh, the man was impossible. But Chakotay couldn’t stop laughing.

“Chakotay, what makes you think you’ll _have_ to write me up? What makes you think I won’t be the perfect little lieutenant simply because I love and trust you?”

Chakotay felt his heart speed up. “ _Do_ you?”

“Yes.” But he looked apprehensive.

Chakotay felt breathless. And speechless. But something in his eyes made Paris relax.

“What about Janeway?” Paris asked.

“What about her?”

“Doesn’t she—don’t you ….”

“She—um. I— She’s really not that interested. I don’t think we really ever had that much in common.”

“Any less in common than you and I have?”

Chakotay found himself smiling. “You and I understand each other,” he said, in sudden realization. “I keep having to explain myself to her. She’s not like us. She’s—she’s never failed.”

“Of course she has,” said Paris. “That’s how we _got_ here.”

“No. She’s never lost who she was. She’s never had to spit out the mud and claw her way back to her feet. We have. You and I have.”

“Never thought of failure as the basis of a relationship.”

“No: it’s just that … we fit. She and I never really did. She’s been Starfleet all her life; never had to _be_ anything but Starfleet all her life. And I— We stopped being able to fit the minute I left Starfleet. From the beginning. She’s never been able to understand why I left, why I did what I did, why I fought the Federation—not really understand. You can.”

He stared into the glowing face for a long time.

“Yeah, but are _you_ going to tell her? Because she could bust _me_ right back to civilian.”

Chakotay smiled. “I’ll tell her.”

Paris gave him an impudent grin. “Because you’re the good commander taking care of the good lieutenant?”

“Because I’m Chakotay taking care of the man I love.” His heart skipped a thump at the word.

“I’m not going to let you take that word back,” Paris murmured.

“I don’t want you to.” And, he didn’t. Suddenly he felt as if he’d broken some shell, lost a weight that had been dragging him down for far too long. He’d find out what that weight was later.

“I want to do last night again all over,” Paris drawled.

Chakotay flushed. “Tom, I’m—I’m sorry I was so— I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you refuse me.”

Paris was staring at him. “Chakotay, I know how to say ‘no’ and make it stick. I’m not some whimpering virgin you dragged off to your lair. I—uh—I wasn’t the only one losing clothes out there. And we all looked really happy about it. _Believe_ me, Chakotay, that was one erotic experience. I mean, _damn_ , Commander—once you get going, you’re a major force of nature.”

Chakotay’s face felt hot enough to fuel a reactor. “I think calling me ‘Commander’ in that context is … just not a habit we should get into.” _Force of nature_. He struggled for breath.

Paris laughed. “I promise not to do it again.”

He looked into the merry eyes. And then one of them must have stepped forward, because their mouths were on each other. It was a long kiss, and Chakotay felt unsteady at the end of it. Unsteady and thoroughly happy.

“Right about now,” Chakotay said, “I’d take you to bed and prove just how much you mean to me. But—well, the plumbing just isn’t as young as it used to be.”

Paris smiled. “Whose is?” Then, a little shyly, “I like necking in the shower.”

So they tried necking in the shower, which was pretty damned great, what with water beading on the rosy-gold skin, pattering down in a thousand soft touches; what with slick fingers sliding over slick skin.

Necking outside the shower worked, too: mouths languid over wet skin, tongue burnishing a strong throat.

Necking in bed was also satisfying. Kneeling above Paris, kissing every centimeter of throat, of hard shoulders, kissing his way across the chest, sucking on the neatly set ears. Tom’s mouth on his, sucking on his lower lip. Their tongues exploring each other. Husky sigh into Chakotay’s ear as the wet tongue laved his earlobe. Smooth body on his as the wet mouth sucked its way across his throat, the tip of the tongue skimmed circles around his nipples. The pretty mouth curving when he gasped.

Chakotay caught his breath, felt his hips jerk in the way that meant that the plumbing was about to get very interested, indeed.

Paris pulled back. The blue eyes focused on his. Paris looked down at him for a very long time; and Chakotay’s heart skipped a dozen beats. He wasn’t sure he was forgiven. Surely that gaze could see into him, know that his heart was pounding, _Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. You could hurt me so much_.

Paris studied him, then stretched out beside Chakotay, with his head on Chakotay’s shoulder. Chakotay’s hand found the slender neck and began to stroke it gently.

“Of all the people in my life,” Paris said finally, “you’re the only one who’s ever rescued me.”

 _Well, you started it_ , Chakotay thought; but he didn’t say it: that wasn’t what Paris meant.

“You needed rescuing,” Chakotay said.

“I’ve _wanted_ rescuing.” And Chakotay thought, _Yes, that’s been it, hasn’t it?_ Someone on Paris’s side, someone saving him from the disaster he’d made of his life.

“You’ve _deserved_ rescuing,” Chakotay said; and he felt all the tension suddenly melt from Paris’s body.

Paris’s fingers trailed over Chakotay’s inner thigh, just missing the plumbing. He raised up on the other elbow, smiled down at Chakotay. He kissed Chakotay, kissed him again, all the while drifting his fingers in a slow lazy circle. “Wonder how that plumbing’s coming along?” he said with a mischievous grin.

Chakotay grinned back and let his own hands start an eager exploration.

Mouth on mouth, and tongue smoothing tongue; and Chakotay drew back with a gasp and said in a shaky voice, “You never told me what else you like.”

Paris grinned slyly at him. “I like to be fucked,” he said. “Hard. By somebody who knows what he’d doing.”

“I know my way around,” Chakotay said.

“ _Think_ so?” Paris’s eyes were unfocusing; his cock was hard as it moved against Chakotay’s belly.

“ _Know_ so.” Chakotay looked down at himself. “Kind of need a little help kick-starting things—”

Paris’s idea of kick-starting things sent a wave of pleasure through Chakotay so intense that he was nearly undone. That hot, wet mouth sucking, sucking; tongue sliding along his hardening cock; cool breath on his balls, and teeth just skimming receptive skin— He bucked and dug his heels into the mattress, reached blindly; felt both wrists trapped by an iron-strong hand. He groaned.

Paris’s mouth took its time. Tip of tongue tracing the length of Chakotay’s cock, again and again; laving his balls. Sucking.

And he helpless to do anything but whimper, thrust, plead. Paris’s mouth went to the inside of Chakotay’s thigh, and Chakotay heard himself beg for—god, he had no idea what for. Just begging. Fucking erotic.

But, finally, “Please,” he gasped. “I can’t— _Please_.”

And Paris’s mouth found his. Chakotay tasted his own musk.

“So, fuck me,” Paris murmured. His cock throbbed against Chakotay’s hands.

“We need—”

Paris shook his head. Sweat fell from his face. “All I’ve ever needed,” he said, “was to be bent over … by the right guy … at the right time.”

Of their own accord, Chakotay’s hands freed themselves, grabbed Paris at the waist, put him on his knees on the bed. He watched the knees spread, saw the ass cant to just the right angle. He pushed down on the slick back, so that Paris balanced just barely on elbows, on spread knees. Looking pleadingly over his shoulder at Chakotay. Silky ass tilted in mute invitation. The rosy heels of Paris’s feet were an oddly erotic counterpoint.

Chakotay knelt just behind, steadied himself on the bed on one hand. Ran his other hand over the firm, round ass.

Paris arched, groaned. Sweat gleamed on his spine. Chakotay’s fingers slid between Paris’s legs and explored the hot balls there. “Oh, _please_ ,” Paris whimpered. The knees spread farther apart.

Not yet. Chakotay languidly reached further. His fingertips found Paris’s cock, hard as duranium. Slickened his thumb at the tip. Paris cried out and thrust against nothing. “ _Please_.”

Almost. Chakotay’s hand went to his own cock, slicked his fingers. Reached around and worked them into Paris’s wet mouth.

Paris sucked avidly. He arched, his ass bumping Chakotay’s cock.

“ _Please_ ,” Paris gasped when Chakotay removed his fingers. “ _Please_.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Chakotay murmured into Paris’s ear. His slippery fingers worked their way into the opening. “I’m going to fuck you hard.”

Paris groaned and thrust against Chakotay’s fingers. He reached back, groped blindly at Chakotay’s hip, found his cock. Chakotay helped him to position it.

Chakotay eased in. Oh mygod, that hot, receptive body opening to his thrust. Paris, thrusting back, impaling himself with a rough groan.

Chakotay’s hips found their own rhythm, a corkscrewing motion that drove soft grunts from Paris.

Damn, they were fucking, and fucking, and fucking— Chakotay lost himself in the heat, in the bump of that ass against his groin, in the unformed _yes_ of Paris’s rhythmic grunts.

Fucking and fucking— Chakotay fumbled at Paris’s belly.

Fuckingandfuckingand— As the heat surged through him, he pulled at the ready cock. And felt Paris stiffen in orgasm, dimly heard the long wail that doubled his own pleasure.

Time ceased.

Paris sagged to the bed, knees still wide. Chakotay slipped out of Paris’s body and fell heavily on the bed just beside him.

They panted at each other for a minute, grinning. Paris was a sight worth enjoying: sweat darkening his hair, eyes soft with satisfaction, skin flushed and dewy.

 _“Dewy”_ , Chakotay thought. _Oh, you HAVE got it bad_.

“So, how was _that?_ ” he asked when he had breath enough.

“I’ll let you know,” said Paris, “when I come back down to earth.”

Chakotay laughed. His hand found Paris’s soft ass. He kneaded it thoroughly, avoiding the leaking slipperiness. Paris’s eyes closed in pleasure.

“Mygod, that feels great,” he murmured. “How did you know— That feels fucking _great_.”

Chakotay’s heart speeded with joy. He slid his hand up the slippery back, tangled his fingers in Paris’s hair, brought their mouths together and kissed him lingeringly.

They drew apart a few centimeters, stared languidly into each other’s eyes.

Perfect.

Paris shifted, grimaced. “Damn,” he said. “I always end up in the wet spot.”

They would need more towels, Chakotay realized as he watched Paris swab himself in the bathroom. It was an astonishingly erotic sight. A _lot_ more towels. He cleaned himself with the corner of this towel and watched Paris’s flush of interest. Maybe Siilne could borrow some. The tip of Paris’s tongue slid along his lower lip as Chakotay finished. Maybe she should get some from the next village, too.

He dropped this towel on the floor and moved in on Paris, grinned into his grin, gathered him into his arms, walked him backward to the bed. Stood for a minute in Paris’s arms, as Paris’s mouth tenderly explored his. Closed his eyes and breathed musk.

Paris drew him down to the bed. Chakotay pulled him close. Their hearts thumped together. Paris breathed softly in Chakotay’s ear. He rested his head on Paris’s shoulder.

“I knew you’d be,” Paris murmured, “just perfect.” His hand strayed to Chakotay’s relaxed cock. “Not too big—not too small—just right.”

“What do you mean, ‘not too big’?” Chakotay growled in mock anger.

Paris laughed. “I’ve been fucked by bigger guys. Wasn’t nearly as good.”

“What do you _mean_ , ‘not too big’?” Chakotay demanded again, raising his head.

Paris’s delighted grin made his heart skip a beat or two. Chakotay laughed. Damn—this was _fun_.

“Did we actually eat breakfast?” Paris asked. “Because I’m starving.”

Breakfast—or lunch—or whatever the hell it was—was cold. They ate it anyway. To Chakotay’s surprise, the afternoon shadows were long.

“When’s _Voyager_ due back?” Paris asked.

“Any day now.” He hoped it wouldn’t be early.

“Village is quiet.”

“Everybody’s making souls.”

They grinned at each other. Chakotay yawned.

“We can make more souls,” Paris said, “tomorrow. We can, can’t we?”

“It’s our duty to our hosts.”

Paris drew Chakotay down and covered them in the blanket—and the veil. They nestled close, found the perfect fit.

“This is perfect,” Paris said sleepily a few minutes later. “Eating, sleeping, fucking.” Chakotay grinned. “Arguing.” Chakotay laughed.

“Yes,” he said. _Perfect_.

He slept.

——

Chakotay woke to silky fabric around him and warm breath regular on his neck and thought, _Huh?_ He eased himself up and looked around him and thought, _Oh. Yeah_.

Dawn was lightening the sky. Paris’s shadowy form was a study in monotones: dark fabric, light skin. Something unreal. Chakotay watched as the shadows receded, as the monotones bled to color. Watched the dark fabric become scarlet, watched the pale skin flush, saw the dark hair become golden in the touch of sun: a form coming alive. He bent and kissed a cheek flushed with sleep.

“Mmmmm,” Paris said. He opened his eyes. Sat up. Looked warily at Chakotay.

Who kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“Okay,” Paris said afterward. He seemed relieved. Then, “I’m getting the bathroom first.”

Okay. When Paris came out, he looked a lot more awake.

Chakotay grabbed a haunch on his way to the bathroom. “Wait for me,” he said.

When he came out, Paris was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands. He looked apprehensively at Chakotay.

What the hell? “What’s wrong?” Chakotay asked. What the hell could be wrong with “Wait for me”?

“Will we— Is this really going to work?”

Oh, shit. “We’ll _make_ it work,” Chakotay said fiercely. He bent and kissed Paris, who’d also used Chakotay’s toothbrush. “We can make it work.” Another kiss. “We’ll be patient with each other.” A kiss. “And faithful to each other.” He mock-glared at Paris. “No more Delaney sisters.” Kiss.

“I wasn’t getting anywhere with them, anyway,” Paris said, grinning.

“No more—no more Harry Kim.” Kiss.

“It was just the once.”

 _The ONCE? You have hidden depths, Harry_. “No more Neelix.” Kiss.

“I think he has a thing for _you_.”

Laughing unbalanced him for a minute. He pushed Paris back onto the bed, knelt over him. The laughing face against the scarlet took his breath away.

“If _Voyager_ comes right now,” Paris said, “I’m going to mutiny.”

“I’ll join you,” Chakotay said, and kissed him hard.

And so it began.

The last day of soul-making; and a damned good thing, too, because—well, because there were only so many souls a man could make, the human body being what it is. Not that they didn’t try for the record. And not that Paris couldn’t be kissed and caressed into whimpering and bucking against Chakotay’s willing-but-too-human body, into a breathtaking orgasm strengthened when Siilne came in with lunch at just the right moment.

Chakotay flung himself over Paris, protecting automatically the body limp in afterglow. _Damn_ the woman.

But she ignored his glare and smiled happily at them both and left.

Paris was laughing. Chakotay turned his glare on him. “If you enjoy it that much,” he growled, “we should just program the holodeck.”

“Promise?”

The man was incorrigible. “ _I’ll_ program it,” Chakotay growled. “With the Federation High Council.” Paris laughed. “With Fitzwilliger’s temporal physics class.”

“Oh, now, a glimpse of _that_ face would just kill things,” Paris said with a laugh.

Good to know that the man had _some_ standards.

Chakotay woke late that night, after the moons had risen. Paris snored beside him, finally sated. Chakotay rose and walked to the window. Looked out into the square, where blackened circles marked the fires that had burned there two nights ago. Lights dotted the buildings overlooking the square: other restless wakers who’d spent the day in bed.

The palace was lit, too. He thought about the daumna sitting alone in the empty building, wondered if he envied those who were indulging themselves, wondered if anyone had yet come to swear alliegance.

He looked over at Paris. Chakotay had been in a similar situation, seeking followers, waiting for warriors. _You thought you could spot an asset to the Maquis cause on sight_ , he thought. _You couldn’t_. He’d missed this one, because Paris didn’t fit the mold.

He never would.

Chakotay could live with that.

What he couldn’t live with, he realized with a grin, was being celibate. Not with Paris within reach. Not at all.

Janeway’s muffled voice broke the stillness. He spread a hand over his crotch, felt a flash of guilt. _Wha—?_

During the second hail, he realized that it was coming from near the door, where someone had dropped their bags. Well, at least they had clothes now.

He tore through the bag, caught up the commbadge on her third hail.

“Yes, captain.” Even in the dark he felt insubordinately naked.

“Did I wake you?”

“It’s—uh—it’s the middle of the night here.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought we’d gotten the time correct. Just wanted you to know that we’ll be within range to pick you up in about six hours. Don’t worry,” she said, her voice rich with amusement, “we’ll make sure it’s daylight where you are.”

He smiled, though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Thank you, captain.”

“I trust everything went well?”

He looked over at the bed. “Oh, yes. Very well.”

“Good. Janeway out.”

“Honeymoon’s over,” Paris said sleepily as Chakotay tucked the commbadge into his bag.

“Change of venue,” Chakotay corrected him, sliding into bed beside him.

“Mmmm.” Paris slid close. Then, “You know, we can end it here—”

“Shut up,” Chakotay said. He wasn’t going to have this discussion again.

“Yes, Commander.” Paris sounded contented.

“I don’t think ‘Commander’ is—um—a word we ought to be using when we’re both naked and in bed.”

“Understood, sir.” Chakotay felt Paris smile against his shoulder.

“What happened to ‘loverbuns’?”

Paris grabbed Chakotay’s ass. “Understood, loverbuns.” A yawn. “I just hope I don’t screw up and say that on the bridge. I mean, I can just about imagine Tuvok ….” He laughed as he drew Chakotay close.

Chakotay chuckled. “And I’ll try not to call you ‘snookums.’ ”

“ ‘ _Snookums_ ’? Is that Indian for something?”

“It’s Indian for ‘don’t call me “loveykins” again.’ ” Chakotay felt every muscle loosening. “ _We_ could do the ‘sir’ thing,” he murmured. “When we’re alone. Once in a while.”

Paris’s body shook with sleepy laughter; he pulled Chakotay onto him. Chakotay nestled into Paris’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Paris said.

They slept.

——

Morning, and, “Damn I’m glad they brought our stuff,” Paris said, smoothing the depilatory over his face. “You’ve got beard burn.”

Chakotay ran hand over his flushed skin. “I thought it was … rash,” he said. The perils of necking with a white guy.

“Don’t you get a beard at all?” Paris said, watching him run the regenerator over his face.

“Not much of one.”

“Lucky.” Then, “How much time before they get here?”

“About an hour.”

“So, grabbing your ass in the shower probably isn’t a good idea.”

Chakotay grinned at his grin in the mirror. “An hour would just make us frustrated.”

Clothes were a wonderful invention. The mere act of putting on the uniform reminded him that he had duties other than pleasuring Paris—duties just about as important as pleasuring Paris. And—well, now he had the pleasure of watching Paris, thinking about what lay under the uniform, knowing what he would look like when the uniform was crumpled halfway across the room.

And there was another pleasure. A cloud crossed Paris’s face as Chakotay attached his First Officer’s bar; Chakotay thought, _Oh, no you don’t_ , and strode across the room and kissed him. Thoroughly. Hard.

They were both gasping when the kiss ended. Then Paris blushed. Looked sly. “In _uniform_ ,” he murmured. “Now, _that’s_ kinky.”

Packing took about a nanosecond. Chakotay’s hand hesitated as he reached for the scarlet cloth. Taking it seemed in bad taste; leaving it seemed in bad taste. But, _Paris arching in pleasure on that scarlet ground_ — He folded it carefully. Didn’t have room in his own bag.

Hesitantly handed it to Paris.

Paris looked at it. “Just as long as I’m not promising to crawl up on your funeral pyre.”

“No. You just—it’s just that you look pretty good … on it.”

“So do you,” Paris said huskily. He tucked it away carefully.

Siilne’s silent husband took the payment. He had a sleepy, contented look. Apparently, a _lot_ of souls had been made all through the inn. Chakotay wondered where she was, thought sourly, _Well, show’s over; why stick around?_

In the square, merchants were setting up their booths. Children were chasing each other between the frames of the booths, squealing past the open gate of the palace. Siilne was consulting with the tavern-keeper. As Chakotay watched, they both started toward the open gate of the palace.

Raabio, in a new suit, was holding forth for a group of young boys, having evidently forged a new career as storyteller. “Four times he stopped the procession,” he was saying. “Four times he spoke his challenge to the eleventh daumna.” Oh shit.

“ _Voyager_ to Commander Chakotay,” said Harry Kim’s voice.

Chakotay tapped his commbadge. “Chakotay here.”

“ ‘I claim him,’ said Chakotay. ‘I claim him for the rest of my life.’ ” Raabio’s voice made Chakotay sound more heroic than he remembered.

“We can beam you up now, sir.”

“And he strode forward and found him. Pulled the veil right off the man he loved.”

“Thank you, ensign.”

“The eleventh daumna appeared before them. ‘You have done well,’ she said to Chakotay. ‘You have proved that your love is true. Take him and be happy forever.’ ”

“We’ll certainly _try_ ,” Paris murmured.

Chakotay tapped his commbadge. “Chakotay to _Voyager_. Two to beam up.”

Yes, they would certainly try.

The transport beam caught them. The last thing he heard was the entranced murmur from one of the boys: “Tell it _again!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another story (see "First Contact") that was supposed to be a quickie—and ended up taking months. It was probably inevitable that this big romantic sap basically did a redo of "Tamlin." In a way, it's sort of a companion piece to "First Contact," with Chakotay taking charge on The Big Bad Planet. And, how did the Paris in Chakotay's vision weave the grass braid into a ring with a "sailor's knot," when it wasn't revealed that he was interested in the sea until years after the incident with Seska? Well, he does have to have a perfect knowledge of the boy....


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